


More Dangerous, Less Wise

by ziggy



Series: Sons of Thunder [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 229,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/pseuds/ziggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are called the Sons of Thunder for the violent revenge they inflict on the Orcs of the Mountains. But a messenger from Thranduil defies Elrohir’s cruelty and it leads to simmering lust and dark conflict between Legolas and Elrohir on the banks of the Bruinen. Set between the Council of Elrond and the departure of the Fellowship.</p><p>Also Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, Gandalf, Glorfindel, Erestor, Elrond, the Hobbits. Thranduil,  Galion.</p><p>Warnings for slash, gratuitously naked Elves and violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A storm breaks

More Dangerous, Less Wise.  
By ziggy3

Beta: As always, I am very lucky to have Anarithilien.

Warnings: Lots of slash- lots of different partners. Woodelf promiscuity. If you like Legolas to be all weepy and virginal, this is not for you.

 

Characters - this chapter.

Thranduil: Elvenking or as the Wood-elves call him, Aran. I have used King as his title as that is how Tolkien refers to him.  
Galion: the King’s ‘butler’ or steward, and oldest friend.  
Laersul: eldest son of Thranduil, leading the pursuit of Orcs towards Dol Guldur. (OC)  
Thalos: middle son of Thranduil, leading the trackers(OC)  
Legolas: youngest son of Thranduil.  
Alagos: one of the King’s messengers (OC).

 

Timeline

20th June: Mirkwood attacked and Gollum freed. (canon) Laersul, the oldest son of Thranduil, leads the pursuit. Legolas is amongst them. Thalos, Thranduil’s second son, leads the trackers. All travel together at first.

23rd June: Thalos breaks away with the trackers as they follow Gollum. Alagos, a messenger, is sent to Thranduil to tell him all that is happening.

25th June: Laersul catches up with the Orcs and engages them but they merely seek to delay the elves and split them further up. Alagos is sent to Thranduil and arrives four days later and gives all known news to Thranduil.

30th June: Radagast is sent by Saruman to find Gandalf and tell him to hasten to Orthanc. Gandalf asks Radagast to send messages with information regarding their hunt for Gollum or of the Ring should be sent to Orthanc as he still thought Saruman was on the side of Good. (canon)

4th July: Boromir leaves Minas Tirith(canon)

22nd July: the two Nazgul leave Dol Guldur and join the seven from Minas Tirith (canon)  
(Source: HASA)

 

 

Chapter One: A storm breaks.

29th June 3018

It was late when Galion strode down the passageway outside the King’s chambers, golden light spilled onto the stone flags from the slightly open door, an invitation if ever he saw one. Boldly he pushed open the door to see a single candle, thick with wax that had dribbled into the pewter holder; its long flame guttered slightly in the draught. Candlelight pooled on a map of the Forest held open by a goblet, another candlestick with only a smoking wick, and various piles of books. Beside the Forest map, but only half unscrolled, was the map of Rhovanion and the Hithaeglir, white peaks marking the spine of the lands spread before him. Like a spine, or teeth, thought Galion, remembering that long cold journey with Oropher many, many years before. He shook himself. Too long ago now. What was here and now was his concern. He knew why Thranduil had this map open and why he sat in shadow near the table, his fingers steepled and staring into the fire he must have lit himself for Galion would never have allowed such extravagance in Summer. 

Thranduil’s slate-green gaze swung heavily towards his steward, his friend, and Galion felt the weight of it. It was a rare moment, Galion thought, coming into the room and prodding emphatically at the fire, that Thranduil was still. The King’s presence always filled a room. Like fire and air, Galion thought. Now the air was heavy as if a storm was about to break.

Since the long, miserable return from Mordor, Thranduil sometimes sank into these dark moods which were unflinching in their despair; then he withdrew from everyone and drenched himself in memories of blood-soaked Dagorlad, stood again in the ash and empty hopes of the Last Alliance and blamed himself for the encroach of the Shadow upon the Woods. It was usual for the melancholy to follow such losses as they had with the unexpected attack upon them that led to Gollum’s escape. It was many days since any of the Wood-elves had slept on their talans beneath the stars and moon; they still reeled from the assault and had retreated into the stronghold beneath the hills.

‘I noted you had taken the good stuff from the cellar,’ Galion said lightly, lifting a heavy glass decanter and sloshing the rich amber liquid around the glass bowl. He poured wine into the goblet that was being used as a paperweight and tutted disapprovingly. With his free hand he fished around in a pewter bowl that was being used by Thranduil to hoard stumps of old candles and bits of string, and pulled out a couple of exquisitely wrought silver clasps. They had been precisely designed to secure the map onto the table but Thranduil never seemed to remember. On the other hand, Laersul always did. But he was in the South of the Forest, hunting the Orcs who had attacked them and freed Gollum. Right now, Galion thought they were well rid of the creature for it stank and had bitten him more than once. Gandalf had bid them treat it kindly, but look how that had ended.

Galion sighed and looking down at the half-open map of the Hithaeglir, took a gulp of wine and felt it warm his chest and belly. Then he took another. 

‘I heard Alagos had arrived with messages from Laersul.’

Thranduil made a slight movement with his head. ‘He reports that Gollum seems to be heading for the Gladden Fields,’ he said and looked back into the flames. A log shifted and sparks flew up, throwing an orange light upon the strong, handsome features, but his eyes were cast down and his long lashes showed sharply on his cheek. ‘Laersul pursues the Orcs into the South. They are level with the East Bight.’ He drank deeply from the goblet that he cradled in his hand and then said morosely, ‘Laersul thinks they will catch up with the Orcs in two days. He has sent Thalos to pursue Gollum.’

Well that accounted for two of Thranduil’s sons, Galion thought. He did not ask where Legolas was. Laersul may well not have told Thranduil and it would put him in a worse mood if he asked; Legolas was most likely to be with Laersul heading for Dol Guldur, and the thought of both of them in that dark place would be more than Thranduil could bear. Galion sighed, looking down into the dark amber depths. He took another gulp but this time it did not warm him.

‘Do you remember how we celebrated old Smaug’s death?’ Thranduil asked suddenly and Galion looked at him, slightly puzzled. This was not how he expected the conversation to turn.

‘The very last of the Dorwinion,’ he said, puzzled but grinning anyway, and Thranduil laughed a little then too, because it had been the last of the Dorwinion that led to one of Galion’s least fine hours*. ‘We celebrated all through the night. And Gandalf and Master Baggins with us.’ Galion smiled because he knew the King had a fondness for the hobbit.

‘Master Baggins indeed.’ Thranduil breathed through his nose and looked back at the fire. The wood splintered by flames, glowed orange and gold and black where it had burned, and he stared into it. 

Galion threw himself in the low comfortable chair opposite Thranduil, indented already with another’s backside; probably Alagos, he thought disapprovingly, for the King’s messenger certainly never showed proper respect.

‘We had a double celebration as I recall,’ he said, closing one eye and considering. ‘Finally the Sit-on-your-Arse White Council actually did something and got rid of the blasted Necromancer-my-Arse. Although we all knew He had already gone anyway. Even so, it was good for a while, was it not?’

Thranduil smiled and lifted his own goblet in salute. ‘It was indeed good for a while...’ He drank, deeply, and the candlelight flashed on a rich, dark ruby on his elegant hand, glinted on emeralds and antique gold in the brooch he wore on his deep green tunic. But nothing was as fine as that long, heavy gold hair; Galion found his thoughts straying where they should not and was lost for a moment in memory, the sift of that burnished silk, the colour of gold coins. He pulled himself back to the present with a dramatic sigh.

‘Ah, it was good. The Summers beneath the stars... But we were never at risk from Smaug.’ He shook his head as he always did when he remembered the journey to Erebor with Thranduil that he thought reckless. ‘You can tell me what you like about magic swords and wizards and magic rings, but there is nothing to beat a Woodelf’s wit or witlessness!*’ he said, guzzling the really very good stuff that he knew, as a good steward does, was utterly wasted on him. It should really only be drunk by the King. 

‘That marked the end of the good time, though we did not know it then, my old friend. We will look back and think what a fool I was, Galion.’ Thranduil took another drink, a long one. ‘I should have listened more carefully to you when you said there was something about Master Baggins...’ He paused for a moment and here was only the sound of logs shifting into ash in the grate. Then quietly, he said, ‘It is upon us, Galion. One way or another, it is upon us.’

Galion frowned a little blearily, wondering why Thranduil was immersed in that memory. True, Galion, whilst liking the hobbit, had said there was something about Master Baggins that made him uneasy and Thranduil had not disagreed then, but no one thought any more of it. Why was he bringing all that up again now? Galion pulled the half-empty decanter towards himself with one hand and in the other, held his goblet. He pulled the delicate glass stopper out with his teeth and spat it out onto the table where it clinked against the candlestick. A little wax dribbled onto the map and he wiped it off with his elbow. 

‘Watching you, Galion, is always a joy,’ Thranduil said drily. ‘I see where Legolas gets his manners and his subtlety.’

‘Wood-elves are known for their grace,’ said Galion. He squinted at Thranduil, pleased that he was recovering his sense of humour, and proportion. ‘And I am not to blame for that boy’s manners, or his lack of subtlety. I would sooner trust your horse with anything that required subtlety. Besides, you are his father.’

Galion’s eye caught again on the outspread map. He found himself tracing the inked lines; one led straight to Dol Guldur, the other ran alongside it first, then wavered, doubled back and then ran towards the Gladden Fields. They had been lovely once, he sighed. The loose end of the inked line now pointed West, towards the spine of mountains. 

‘You have been following their trail...’ Galion stared at the point where the trail petered out. ‘Do you think that is where he is heading?’ He screwed up his face. ‘With any luck Gollum will disappear back into the bowels of the earth and the goblins can have him.’ He wished they were all safely home and found the map wobbled a bit although he could not think why. ‘How soon before you let them come home?’ he asked. ‘They will not find that nasty little beast now.’ His voice caught a little and then he felt Thranduil’s strong, warm hand on his and he looked up.

‘You never could take the good stuff,’ he smiled and Galion let his gaze linger a while on the loveliness of it. 

‘You think I am drunk? A Wood-elf is never drunk!’ he declared mildly outraged and wanting Thranduil to leave his hand there a little longer. ‘Now you, with your bit of SIndar blood, are hopeless. I remember Caras Galadhon.’ He always brought up Caras Galadhon when in his cups, loved the memory of it. 

‘Neither you nor I acquitted ourselves well that day,’ Thranduil said, unperturbed by those long ago memories.

‘Nonsense! We upheld the reputation of the House of Oropher,’ Galion snorted but Thranduil would not be distracted more, and stared again into the fire, lost in his own dark thoughts. Galion wanted nothing more than to hold onto his hand, to comfort Thranduil, but he knew that right now it would meet with nothing more than friendship. 

He put down his goblet and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘There is nothing more you can do, Thranduil,’ he said suddenly serious. ‘Sometimes even Mithrandir can get things wrong.’

Galion watched the firelight flicker over Thranduil’s handsome, noble features...high cheekbones and straight nose, strong set jaw. The firelight always seemed to catch on his hair, gilding him gold. 

‘I wish I had not let Gollum go outside, nor climb that tree...’ Thranduil said in sudden anguish and his hand slowly clenched the small oak leaf pendant about his neck as if he could somehow change things, just by wanting. ‘If I had not allowed it, Celdir and Anglach would be at home now with their mothers, and Sîlaros’ young wife walking with him under the stars instead of sitting at his bedside weeping as if her heart will break, and clutching his hand as if that might bring him back to her.’ 

He did not speak of Naurion, still missing and for whom Laersul and his warriors risked their lives going closer and closer to Dol Guldur in the hope of reaching him. Somehow.

Galion banged his goblet down angrily, spilling a little wine on his sleeve. ‘Why is this your fault,Thranduil?’ he demanded. ‘Would that Mithrandir had taken that accursed Gollum to Imladris or Lothlorien, where they could truly guard it!’ he burst out. ‘You, we, have given more blood than any other Elven people in Arda to put right the wrongs of others. Whilst they sit in their protected little kingdoms and deny you, we are slaughtered! Just like Dagorlad, just like Doriath!’ 

Thranduil’s hawkish gaze fixed upon him, a dangerous reference, Galion knew but he was a Woodelf through and through and could no more back away from danger than he could refuse a drink and song. So he took a long gulp of the heady wine and said, ‘We, you, have given yourself freely; you have given your own sons. That could have been Legolas slain or taken! We should be glad that creature has gone. With luck, the goblins will eat it and it will make them as sick as it made us!’

‘Enough, Galion,’ Thranduil said but surprisingly, there was no heat in it. ‘It was not Legolas.’ 

Galion breathed in, blew out. 

‘And it is not only us who pay,’ Thranduil continued. He swirled the deep amber wine in his goblet, lost in his thoughts. ‘Elrond has lost his wife, and now it is said he has lost both his sons to the Shadow. They ride in fury, hunt and kill mercilessly. The Sons of Thunder they are called by the Orcs and goblins of the Mountain. I would not have that for any of my own, to lose themselves in such bitter hatred.’ 

Galion gave a snort that only a Woodelf would give. ‘Perhaps they could come here and kill a few spiders for us! Or Orcs...maybe a Nazgûl or two.’

The King leaned forward and stirred the dying embers of the fire. Sparks flew. ‘We have no need of their help when we have such sons of the forest as we do.’ His handsome face softened, and he tilted his head, looked back into the flames. Galion gazed at him for a while, remembering the catch of desire softening those long green eyes. Only once, for both loved their wives...but at Dagorlad, all needed comfort. And Galion could not forget...

He glanced at Thranduil, his golden hair burnished, gilded by the firelight, who caught the glance and gave Galion a smile that reached into Galion’s loyal heart and squeezed.

He swallowed and looked away at the map outspread on the table. ‘Call them back, Thranduil,’ he said thickly for his voice was not his own, too choked, too full his heart. ‘Do not let them pursue Gollum into the Mountains. They are treacherous enough on their own without the swarms of goblins. Send Alagos to Mithrandir now, do not delay longer. Tell him Gollum has gone and good riddance.’

The King turned away and stared into the flames, pupils wide and his full lips closed. ‘Not yet, old friend, though my heart is as uneasy as yours. Perhaps Gollum is heading for the Mountains indeed...but for now, he is not even at the Gladden Fields. We may still catch him, our hunters are swift and sure.’ 

Galion collapsed back against the chair, feeling helpless. Thranduil would not be persuaded now, he recognised the set of his stubborn jaw and his eyes had hardened. Silence covered them and there was only the crack and shift of the ashes settling as the last flames died.

Then slowly, quietly, Thranduil spoke again. ‘There are times, Galion, when I wonder if we should not move again...Further north once more...I hear of others going West. They feel the tide in their blood.’

Galion stared, shocked beyond speech. Thranduil felt it and glanced his way.

‘You have seen how many of our warriors are returned to us, cold and dead. And sometimes...sometimes worse.' He swallowed. 'It creeps upon us like night. And there seems nothing more we can do...’

‘Thranduil! If you have given up, how can any of us have any hope?’

Thranduil reached out then and touched Galion gently. ‘No, I have not given up, old friend. But we send our children to fight the Shadow at our doorstep. Tell me, do you ever feel it? When the Moon is full and pulling the tides West?’

‘No,’ Galion declared. ‘Why would anyone wish to go to some distant land that not even the Noldor liked? Even they found it too restrictive and they have are all those laws and things. You would never cope, Thranduil.’ He shook his head in disbelief. Wood-elves in Valinor, he had never heard such a thing! ‘I hope for his sake that Oropher is not reborn. They would have to send him back East, like they did Glorfindel.’

Thranduil laughed loudly at that; never was there more glorious and audacious a leader as Oropher. It was a view shared by many of the Woodelves. Oropher suited them. And they loved Thranduil Oropherion for he wore the name like a badge, and for his bright burnished courage, his sheer will, and his stubborn determination that the Shadow would not win. 

Thranduil suddenly pushed his chair back and stood so he could lean over the table where the maps were spread. One be-ringed hand toyed with the silver clasps Galion had fixed the map with and unseeing, he said, ‘I can feel how the air is changing.The fires of the earth are hot and He searches. Frantically now. He knows It is near...The Nazgûl are hunting. They will leave Dol Guldur, and Galion, I fear for our Mr Baggins.’

Thranduil turned towards Galion, and the flames cast shadows on his face so he looked more hawkish than usual. ‘Gollum had a precious thing, the only thing he cared about..He came out of the Mountains looking for it, believing that our Master Baggins had stolen it from him...I heard him speak thus, Galion. The Man, Strider, Aragorn, found Gollum on the edge of Mordor.’ He fixed Galion with his long green eyes that could be warm but now were flint. ‘What is this precious thing that he came so far from the Mountains to find, that he lost? What is this thing he thought might be in Mordor?’

Galion stared, a horrible sense of foreboding descended. Like a veil of darkness, and he had a sudden image of the Forest in flames and yellow smoke curling upwards...a child screamed somewhere...And he thought he saw Legolas standing staring at the edge of a clearing***... He started suddenly and looked around as if he thought it might be real.

‘There is a storm coming, Galion. And I very much fear that Gollum and our Mister Baggins will be in the heart of it.’

 

0o0o0

 

tbc


	2. The Quality of Mercy

Beta; Anarithilien - thank you

Disclaimer: No money etc

Warnings: None for earlier chapters but as I said before, later that is likely to change but unedited versions will be available on Faerie (www. and then add esteliel.) If anything remotely m/m offends you, you aren't going to like this so I should go elsewhere.

Chapter Two: The Quality of Mercy

5th August

Moonlight pooled silver on the forest path, casting shadows of the tall beech trees. The breeze from the West stirred the long hair of the Wood-elves waiting silently in the boughs of the beech and oak, and set the leaves whispering. Above, starlight struggled against the brightness of the moon, which rode low and close to the earth, seeming to skim the tops of the trees. The Elves did not sing; each lovely, still face turned to watch the forest path with deep grief.

Distantly came the sound of horses' hoofs thudding wearily on the forest path, and the air tensed. The first grey horse came into view, almost invisible in the barred and dappled moonlight. Its head was low and weary and though its rider was tall and the moonlight seemed to stroke his burnished hair the colour of gold coins, his head too was bowed in defeat. Another and then another horse followed, each horse carried its head low and each rider was slumped. They had failed.

The tall Elf with hair the colour of gold coins looked up with grey-blue eyes full of sorrow into the trees at the many empty talans. This was Laersul, the eldest son of the King. Behind him rode his twenty men, for that was every one they could spare after the attack, and some had gone westwards to the Gladden Fields; Gollum's tracks had been clear there. The waiting Elves watched them pass and did not sing or cheer although many hearts were relieved that loved ones had returned and they had not lost more.

When the company reached a large spreading oak, Laersul tilted his head and looked up for a moment. He held up his hand for a halt and slid slowly from his exhausted horse, which huffed and nosed about the grass in a desultory fashion as if too tired even to graze. Laersul winced when his feet met the earth and he clutched his side for a moment before he straightened.

A woman stood in the dappled moonlight, her chest heaving with emotion. She glanced behind the warrior, searching for her beloved returned to her or at least a body slung over a horse. The Elves behind Laersul could not meet her eyes as she stepped past their leader and ran quickly between them, searching, looking at each horse, her lips parted and eyes distraught. She whirled back to Laersul and he stood looking down at her, reached out to touch her arm. She looked up at him, stunned and still he said nothing.

Suddenly she folded, slid to her knees and turned her face to the sky and cried aloud. It was a terrible, wrenching sound, of loss and loneliness and utter despair.

As if the cry released them then, other women quickly surrounded her, their arms about her and she wailed again, this time, she did not stop. The women cradled her in their arms and rocked her, held her close to their breasts and she clung to them, sobbing. One woman looked up at Laersul bitterly as only a mother who has lost her child would.

'You did not reach him in time...' she said and Laersul flinched at the accusation.

'We were so close, Nauriel,' he said in deep sorrow and bowed his head. 'But we could not catch them.' He did not say that the Nazgûl had ridden out, had cast their dark shadows of sorcery about, that they had been sorely beset for the Orcs and Nazgûl had turned on them then and the Elves had to flee for their own lives. He did not speak of the screaming that led them to despair.

'You could not catch them! They are Orcs and you, Elves! Are they so fleet-footed?' She threw her hand out towards them in disgust. 'You could not even be merciful*?'

Behind them, one of the younger warriors gave a wordless cry and turned away and amongst the small company, there was a distressed murmur. They shifted on their horses and seemed to close about themselves. Laersul turned towards them in consternation and then looked back to the bereaved woman, who sobbed and was held by another woman.

'I will go with her, with you, if you wish me to...To tell you what happened.'

Nauriel clutched her heart in agony for her lost son and shook her head. 'No. You are not welcome.'

There was a mild murmur of dismay from the crowd and another woman stepped forward and touched Nauriel on her arm, her face soft with compassion. 'This is the Shadow that speaks, Nauriel. You know that I have your pain. Not one family has been spared over the years, not Laersul's either. You know this.' She turned to Laersul and reached out, gently touching his distraught face. 'You could not have done more, Laersul. We know.'

'It was not enough,' said Laersul and he stood for a moment, head bowed in sorrow until his warriors moved softly around him, murmuring and touching him lightly so he would feel their Song and that they knew the truth of it. They moved silently around him and then he led them over the river and into the King's stronghold.

0o0o

Galion heard what had happened and had to be restrained from going and finding Nauriel, and the only reason he did not was because of her loss. She was ever waspish he thought, and he knew that Laersul would feel her words as cruelly as if she had struck him. Even now, Laersul had gone to Silarôs' bedside to speak quietly to his wife, threading what peace he could through her poor broken heart before he took any rest for himself. Legolas was nowhere to be seen and Galion thought he must have slipped off quietly on his own. It was not unlike him when he was distressed, but Galion hoped he had gone first to Thranduil.

Galion leaned on the door post for a moment, watching his staff setting out food and drink in the kitchens for the warriors who had not yet gone to their own families; some lingered, needing to be with those who understood. Then he turned and took up a platter of food and a mug of warmed wine and left the hall, striding through the passages that wound through the light and airy caverns beneath the tree-covered hills.

To Galion it always felt like he walked through dense avenues of trees rather than caves, for every wall was carved with scenes of the forest or of feasting and dancing under the starlight. Gemstones gleamed and reflected the green-tinted light that filled the caverns and passages in the daytime. But at night, as now, great glass globes were lit and the light then was of every colour and the gemstones gleamed more brightly like miniature coloured flames. It was both like and unlike Menegroth, Galion thought, as he ran lightly up wide shallow steps. It was not as rich, or the caves as deep, and it did not have the same heavy, sonorous enchantment. Although there was enchantment here, it was older, more natural, of Fire and Earth and Air and Water. It was Thranduil's deep connection with his Woods and old magic.

He found the King in his rooms, clad in a simple hunting tunic of green suede and brown leather breeches, leaning over the same maps as before. He had removed the clasps of course, Galion noticed irritably, and there were the usual piles of books, the candlestick and a heavy paperweight holding the maps open. The clasps were on the table under a pile of scrolls.

'Have you seen Legolas yet?' Galion asked without preamble.

Thranduil looked up with sudden hope. 'Is he here?'

Absently, Galion moved the piles of books and the candlestick as he always did, and shoved the clasps over the edges of the map with a sigh. 'No. He has disappeared somewhere. I hoped he had been to see you first.'

Thranduil's face tightened a little and Galion knew that he bit down his disappointment. 'He has always needed to be amongst the trees when he is upset...I heard what happened,' Thranduil said. Galion was unsurprised that Thranduil knew, he seemed to know everything in his realm even as it happened. 'Is Laersul...?'

'He is with Silarôs. Before that, he was seeing to his men. He will be here in a moment I would think.'

Thranduil grunted agreement. 'He will not want to be comforted either. He has always been better at giving than receiving,' Thranduil said, resigned because he wanted to comfort all his sons and they had not come to him. It was, Galion thought, one of the prices they paid, for it was long since a woman had been part of their small family household, and not a day went by when he did not mourn that absence.

'Nauriel wanted her son to be a poet remember? Not a warrior,' Galion said with a sigh. 'He could not sing a note on key.' He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment for there was a strange prickling in the corner of his eyes.

Thranduil glanced at him and then quickly looked away.

Galion shook himself. 'It seems the Nazgûl rode out from Dol Guldur and assailed them,' he said. 'Two of them, as we thought. One was Khamûl.'

Thranduil barely glanced up. 'This is unsurprising,' he said. 'Have we not long known the Nazgûl occupied the Tower, have done almost since the day the Sit-On-Your-Arse White Council had sent the Necromancer-My-Arse packing. As you so accurately express it.'

'I am pleased to know, my Lord, that you were paying attention.' But in spite of the banter, they were both tense, waiting for Laersul, and both heavy with disappointment that they had not returned with Naurion or at least his body.

A light knock on the door came as a surprise to neither of them and both looked towards the opening door expectantly.

'Father.'

Laersul stood in the doorway, his tall frame obscured the torchlight from without and lit up his golden hair so like his father's. But for the grey-blue eyes he was very like Thranduil to look at, thought Galion. But there the resemblance stopped for where Thranduil was all whirling energy and power, like Air and Fire, Laersul was as steadfast as his name, and there was a quality of stillness about him rare in a Woodelf; Earth and deep waters, thought Galion remembering the quiet, earnest child that Laersul had been.

Thranduil took two strides across the room and enveloped his oldest son in an embrace, pulled his head down and kissed the top of his ear, for it had been a long time since he could reach the top of his head.

'You did well, Laersul. No one could have done more.'

Galion winced at the irony of the words he had spoken himself some weeks before, but Laersul looked away and rubbed his eyes with his hand. Galion knew he would be blaming himself, drenching himself in self-recrimination in the same way his father did.

'It was not still enough.' Laersul smoothed his hands over his head, over his braids as if reassuring himself they were there, that he deserved them.

Galion tutted and pushed him into the low, comfortable chair, and reached for the decanter. He poured rich amber wine into a goblet and pressed it into Laersul's hand.

'Galion says it is the good stuff,' Thranduil commented drily. He reached out towards the map table, groped for his own goblet of wine but found only the silver clasps; Galion pretended not to notice that he glared at the clasps as if they somehow were to blame. Finding his wine on the side table, Thranduil threw himself into his own chair, took a long drink, swirled it around his mouth and then leaned back, swallowing. His slate-green eyes came to rest on his tall son.

Laersul stared down at his hands, his full lips slack and suddenly a sob tore its way from his throat.

'Ah, Laersul,' Thranduil sounded as anguished as his son and he reached forwards to clasp his son's hand. Galion rested one buttock on the arm of Laersul's chair so he was lightly pressed against him. Laersul did not sob again and he did not weep.

They were patient, waiting for him to speak, and Galion let his mind go back to when the times were good, before the Shadow had come to Dol Guldur and they lived the simple, easy life they had dreamed of...

...Trees reaching their high boughs upwards. Oropher throwing his head back, laughing loudly. Sunlight pouring over Amon Lanc, turning Oropher to gold and Thranduil gazing up at his father, adoringly...

Galion rubbed his eyes and wondered how much more Vairë had to throw at the House of Oropher. These days he thought he drank wine more in sorrow than in merriment and spent his time more in dreams of the past than of the future.

Laersul took a breath, and swallowed some wine. He let his head fall back against the chair and began to speak.

He told Thranduil and Galion of those very trees that Galion had been remembering, in the deep forest where the pines grew tall, which had now become diseased and rotten. They had turned against the Elves who had once lived amongst them, and reached their twisted and gnarled branches to snarl the Elves as they fought their way towards their comrade before he was taken into the darkness of the Tower.

Thranduil clenched his fist slowly until the knuckles were white and his rings dug into his flesh as Laersul told how the Orcs they had pursued so relentlessly suddenly turned to attack, and the Nazgûl came then, their unearthly shrieks piercing the darkness. The Nazgûl's thin black shrouds seemed to spread and billow wider and wider, sorcery, so the ruined forest was veiled even to the Woodelves' keen eyes and a bank of grey fog rolled over them. The trees twisted and turned them so that they fled the wrong way and suddenly the Tower itself, Dol Guldur, had loomed up from the mist...

Laersul had tried to hold out, fought to reach the Orcs that still held Naurion, but they were being driven ever closer to the Tower. All the time, they could hear Naurion screaming, his voice hoarser, weaker.

Laersul swallowed the wine without tasting it. 'I did not dare fight on...We were surrounded and lost and the walls of Dol Guldur loomed up ahead of us. I ordered all our arrows loosed into the fog towards Naurion, and to retreat,' he said. 'We do not know if Naurion still lives.' He faltered. 'I...I cannot speak of it more, my lord. Please... Forgive me.'

Galion stirred, unable to sit any longer. He leapt to his feet and grasped the heavy decanter to refill Laersul's goblet, pressing his fingers against Laersul's hand in comfort as he did so. Laersul looked away and Galion guessed he did not believe he deserved comfort.

Thranduil glanced up at Galion in mutual sorrow. 'There is no comfort for any of us.' He reached out to touch Laersul gently on his cheek. 'You would not have one of your men berate himself and I beg you give yourself the same kindness.'

Laersul hid his eyes with one hand. 'I cannot forget the screaming, father. I never will. Naurion is but another added to the cries of those I have not saved from the Darkness.'

Thranduil twisted the ruby ring on his finger in uncharacteristic distress. 'It is so for all of us, Laersul. Even now, I do not forget Dagorlad when Orcs ran amongst our wounded and dying and took such glee in inflicting pain... And we could do nothing. Their screams haunt me still.'

How this bloody mess drive us backwards in time, Galion thought, and the memories were the same. It seemed to Galion that always they paid the price, always the Woodelves took the brunt, and whatever Thranduil said about Elrond, Galion knew what was in his heart...

...Oropher lying dead on the bloody field at Dagorlad, Thranduil weeping, over his body, furious, shouting at Gil-Galad that he had deliberately held back and allowed the Woodelves to throw themselves recklessly at Sauron believing the Noldor to be following...that the Noldor had sacrificed the Woodelves so they had cut Sauron's forces for the Noldor who only then had entered the affray, with their strong armour and steel weapons...And Elrond taking it with unbearable compassion...It had been Galion who comforted Thranduil then, and he had turned in his despair, needing comfort, to feel another living body.

Galion shook himself slightly; it seemed he was plagued this night with nostalgia.

Thranduil lifted his head to look at his son. 'You could do no more. I would not have still more families in grief...And I would not lose you for all the world,' he said gently.

Laersul sighed as if it came from the deepest part of him.

'You have not seen Legolas I suppose,' he said at last. And then it was his turn to give Thranduil comfort and he leaned towards his father and clasped his hands so he ceased turning the ring on his finger. 'Legolas is by far the best archer amongst us so I charged him with this one task. I wish I had not. There was only one moment for the mercy.' He smoothed his hand over his head. 'Numbers of Orcs kept breaking off from the main group to engage us in battle, to slow us down for there were far more of them than us and the main group kept hurrying Naurion on ahead. Then for the first time, the only time, we could see Naurion...' He swallowed for the sight had been cruel. 'Legolas had drawn but I was down and three Orcs onto me. There was no one else to help me...Legolas hesitated and then it was too late.'

Galion let his gaze drop to the deep amber wine; Legolas had missed his shot. No wonder Nauriel was so desperate. No wonder the returning warriors had gathered about Legolas in pity and concern. No wonder the only company he sought now was his own. He was not the first, he would not be the last. 'Mercy is hard on everyone,' he said softly, aware of Thranduil's concern for him too. 'When it is not given it is harder than death.'

'It is why he will not come,' Laersul said quietly. 'Give him time, father. You know he will seek solace and peace amongst the trees first. He will come to you when he is ready.'

'And I must be content with that,' Thranduil said but try as he might to hide it, there was anguish in his voice and Galion watched, knowing how it grieved him that it Legolas on whom mercy depended, and that on his return, Legolas had not turned to him first.

'You need to eat something,' Galion said, noticing how exhausted Laersul was. 'And then you must sleep.'

Laersul shook his head. 'None of us will sleep well tonight, not yet,' he said heavily. 'I wonder where Thalos is.' He glanced over his shoulder to the map. 'Pray that he is safe.'

Thranduil had sunk back in his chair and his face was in shadow, though Galion could see his chest heave in fear for his last son still out there.

'He is most likely over the Gladden Fields and in the Hithaeglir now,' said Thranduil at last. 'They lost Gollum for a while but last we heard he was headed south and west...towards the Dimril Dale.' He leaned across and tugged at the map and then finding it secured, he made a sound of exasperation and pulled hard. The clasps pinged off while Galion watched irritably and resolved to glue the map onto the table when Thranduil was out hunting. Thranduil shook the map and smoothed it over his knees.

'If Gollum has made it to the Hithaeglir we will lose him in the mountains,' said Laersul slowly, leaning forwards to see the map. 'To continue our search it will mean going beneath the Hithaeglir.' He pointed where the trail petered out and traced further. Then he raised his eyes to his father's face. 'The only way in that we know of is Moria.'

Moria, the Black Pit. The name itself sent a prickling chill down Galion's spine. He pulled at the map across Thranduil's lap and dragged it around so he could see the inked line more clearly. As Laersul said, it threaded its way across the Gladden Fields and for a while it lost itself in the Hithaeglir. Then more strongly it struck out and the line led unerringly towards Moria.

'Thalos will not wish to go into the Dark. But he will, if you command it.' Laersul met his father's eyes coolly.

'It is far closer to Lórien than us now. It must become their problem not ours. Let Galadriel deal with it,' Galion burst out. 'Hasn't she got some sort of magic mirror? And that accursed Ring she wears,' he said bitterly. He did not want Thalos going into the Pit. 'She can see where the misbegotten creature is and send some of the Galadhrim out for it. They have nothing else to do!' He felt a sense of dread creep over him at the thought and sent a quiet prayer to the Star-Kindler to light the way for the last son of Thranduil not yet returned.

'Thalos could go to Lórien' Laersul ventured. 'She could perhaps tell him if Gollum is beneath the Mountains.'

The candle guttered, its flame suddenly long and smoking and Thranduil stared at it for a moment. Then he reached for a new, long white candle from a basket on the shelf behind him.

'Oropher moved north to escape her influence long ago,'** he said, holding the taper of the new candle over the long guttering flame of the old. 'Any help she gives is in riddles and I have no time for that.' He jammed the new-lit candle into the candlestick so wax bubbled over, spilled onto the table. 'Thalos would be no better off than he is now.'

Galion saw Laersul stifle a sigh of frustration. These sons do not understand, he thought. They do not know the Noldor. How could they? They had not lived through the bloody ages and Thranduil had brought them up as truly Silvan; as dangerous and as merry as Iluvatar intended Elves to be, he thought with quiet satisfaction, and if the Noldor thought them 'untutored', it was because the sort of tutoring the Noldor engaged in was simply not worth having, Galion thought with a sniff. Elrond was all right he supposed, but he was so mixed in his blood he owned kinship with everyone.

'Father,' Laersul had leaned forward and touched Thranduil's hand lightly. 'Then call Thalos back. He cannot hope to track Gollum through Moria if that truly is where he had gone. Even the Man, Aragorn, lost him there,' he said earnestly. 'Call Thalos back. Send a message to Mithrandir that his creature is gone,'

Thranduil met his son's steady gaze, considering.

Then slowly, without taking his eyes from Laersul's, he nodded. 'Very well.'

Both Galion and Laersul breathed but Thranduil gave them a stern look and said, 'Gollum is important in some way and we do not yet know for sure that we have lost him. So we will await Thalos' return and if he has not recovered Gollum, we will send messages to Mithrandir in Imladris.'

There was a moment of stillness, of relief, and Galion drained the last of his wine and Laersul rose to his feet slowly, wearily. Galion knew he would find Legolas before he retired; he knew where he would be, they all did.

Laersul looked down at his father for a moment and then said thoughtfully, 'Mithrandir was heading for Orthanc. Was there not a message from Radagast to send any messages there? '

Thranduil swirled the amber wine in his goblet. 'I do not wish to send messages of any kind to Curunír,' he said deliberately. 'There is something about him I do not trust, and he has never been our friend.' He looked at Galion briefly and a small smile tugged his lips. 'I sound most mistrustful,' he said wryly. 'Many a time has he scoffed at our belief that the Necromancer-my-Arse was the Enemy himself when even Galadriel thought us right...No, we will seek Mithrandir first in Imladris. If he is not there, Aragorn dwells there and will know how to find him. He is trusted by Mithrandir. If not, we might ask Elrond for advice I suppose,' he added grudgingly.

He pursed his lips and stared at the fire, lost in thought and Galion made a signal to Laersul that he might go. But Thranduil suddenly looked up. His eyes were clear, and the firelight that always loved him, gilded his hair. 'We will send a witness with the message. I want Mithrandir to know what the cost has been to our people of harbouring Gollum. I want him to understand the price we have paid for the kindness he bid us show.' He gazed into the depths of his goblet and closed his eyes briefly, his thoughts seeming to shift then, his voice to soften. 'I will be glad to have all my sons at home.'

0o0o0

Laersul walked beneath the silvered beeches but his heart was not soothed. Although his path was far from Nauriel's talan where she still keened, he hoped he would not meet anyone at all. He rubbed his hands over his face and then smoothed his braids wishing he had done more, ridden faster, more recklessly. There would be some who criticized he knew that. Some would say he should have ordered the milui-criss* much sooner, others that Legolas should not have been the one charged with the shot, or that he should have made the shot and allowed others to cover Laersul...He breathed out. No one else could have made the shot that bought Laersul's life, and he supposed part of his guilt was that he lived and Naurion...well, he had no doubt that Naurion was dead by now.

The Forest River rushed ahead of him, its song unchanged, careless of the plight of the Elves; it rushed over granite and slate and through the ferny dells and gushed into still, shady pools where the brown trout moved lazily. This Song was in the hearts of all Woodelves, as was the wind in the tree-tops, but he listened also to the light green-gold notes that threaded their way through the moonlit forest and followed them to where he knew Legolas would be.

On the outer circles of the Woodelves' settlement at edge of the river was a tall and very ancient oak with wide spreading branches, cool in the Summer and its deep roots plunged into the earth. Its bark was silvery in the moonlight and Laersul grasped a low bole and climbed swiftly. The oak's song thrummed, twined with light notes of green-gold.

'Laersul...?' His brother's voice came down from the higher branches and he paused for a moment for Legolas sounded so unhappy. But when there was no further sound he resumed climbing, his strong hands finding handholds and pulling himself easily aloft. He paused briefly at the simple talan that Legolas often used, noting his bow and quiver, his long knives cast carelessly onto the narrow bed, his cloak cast over the wooden chest. A soldier's billet, nothing luxurious or homely, but he knew that to Legolas the trees and river were all the beauty and luxury he needed. He climbed higher into the topmost branches of the oak.

Sitting astride a wide branch was Legolas, outlined in silver. The moonlight seemed to catch in his long pale hair, and there were always leaves clinging to him as if the trees loved him most of all. Laersul smiled for he was being fanciful and that was unlike him. Legolas barely turned when his oldest brother crouched next to him and slid his long legs over the edge of the branch to dangle alongside his.

Laersul sat silently, very still, listening to the songs of the trees and the stars. He heard the oak's slow song and its deep green cadence; its slow rhythm thrust strongly into the earth, reaching roots, pushing leaves upwards, washed with moonlight and sunlight, the sap pulsing through its veins and filling the leaves so they unfurled and stretched.

Breathing in the clean air of the forest, Laersul let the song of the oak and the river soothe and gentle his spirit. After the twisted trees and the corruption of the South, he needed green things around him, life pulsing like the blood in his veins.

At last he gently cupped Legolas' cheek and pulled his youngest brother's head down onto his own shoulder and felt Legolas slump suddenly, resting against him.

'I still have not thanked you,' he said softly.

Laersul closed his eyes and listened for Legolas' own sweet song of green-gold that threaded through the notes of the trees and stars... There, it washed the air around Laersul and he felt immersed as if in a shaded pool of water and with sunlight filtering through the pale green leaves. But there was not the usual lightness and joy that danced through Legolas' song, but instead a well of sorrow like the rolling of waves that he had seen on the Long Lake, endless, sonorous. Laersul did not seek to drown it with his own Song; he merely let Legolas rest against him and listened.

0o0o0

22nd September

The sun shone on the Woods and the leaves began to turn. The deep song of the great oaks had slowed still further as they turned their thoughts to sleep and the Elves gathered the harvest and made plans for the winter. Thranduil had charged everyone to make sure supplies were more plentiful, better stored, more secure and that the light and airy caverns of the stronghold were ready for as many Elves as needed, for they could all feel the storm gathering. The birds of the Forest who were friends of the Elves had brought tidings that the Nine had crossed the Fords of the Isen and it disturbed the Woodelves more than they thought possible. That the Nazgûl had abandoned Dol Guldur was no comfort to anyone and still the talans were empty and many of the Elves remained in the stronghold. The Raft-elves brought news from Esgaroth that there were strange doings in the lands of Men, and the Dwarves were restless and had been busy in the Mountain, shoring up their defences and urging Dale and Esgaroth to do likewise.

Legolas had hoped his father would send a small troop, himself included of course, to ascertain how serious this was but Thranduil seemed to take this news in his stride, as if he knew anyway. And Galion had been most insistent that no one could be spared anyway; that every last apple, every last grain had to be gathered in, and so had set everyone, including Thranduil, to the harvest of the apple trees that were on the edge of the forest and spread out into the low meadows.

It was evening and they had still not finished the day's work though the sun's rays were low across the ground and the world was settling into dusk.

Legolas was carefully picking apples along a particular branch that would take him directly into the path of Theliel; she was leaning over to pick some ripe red apples, her long black hair falling over her shoulder and her front of her dress dipped just as enticingly. Legolas was thoroughly enjoying the view except that Laersul, who was in the same tree, and moving along the same branch as Theliel, kept getting in the way. Laersul suddenly turned and looked over his shoulder at Legolas, caught his eye and grinned. Legolas was outraged.

'Theliel, these apples are particularly ripe,' he called, exasperated.

Theliel's grey eyes peered over Laersul's broad shoulder and Laersul leaned down and whispered something to her so she laughed merrily and Legolas rolled his eyes. But Theliel did move slightly past Laersul then and the next apples she picked brought her closer to Legolas.

He deliberately reached for the same apple that she seemed about to pick when he thought he heard the echo of a song coming through the forest, and he turned...It danced lightly across the leaves, sparkled on the river and leaped through the heavy boughs of the apple trees. He saw that Thranduil, who was stacking the apples so they would not spoil, had also straightened and was looking into the forest, his long hand shading his eyes. Slowly, others raised their heads or leaped down from the trees, and Legolas looked excitedly at Laersul, Theliel forgotten for the moment. He jumped down from the tree he was in and grabbed at his brother excitedly. An answering gleam was in Laersul's grey-blue eyes.

'Thalos!' he cried excitedly and set off after Thranduil, who was already taking long strides towards the Forest Path. Legolas whooped in delight and set off running, matching Laersul's long strides and overtaking Thranduil. There were other voices raised in welcome and delight, for Thalos and his hunters had returned.

Glad voices raised in song, a very different homecoming from the last one, and then Thalos was there, long bow slung over his shoulder and green eyes sparkling; he seemed blown in on the wind, smelt of the last warmth of the Summer and the open plains beyond the Woods. There were leaves in his long dark hair as if the trees had let their leaves fall upon him as a greeting and he laughed, such a glad sound and so full of merriment. The three returning hunters looked tired and strained but the relief of returning was so great they seemed lit from within. Laersul and Legolas were the first to reach them and Laersul shoved Legolas out of the way with brotherly affection and reached Thalos first, enveloping him in a great bear hug and trying to lift Thalos off the ground. Legolas almost danced around them trying to pull Laersul off and Laersul tried to keep Legolas at a distance with one hand. Other Elves arrived and surrounded the returning hunters with cries of welcome and relief.

'You are too short by a head little brother!' Laersul laughed and ruffled Legolas' hair irritatingly but Thalos drew Legolas into the embrace, his bright eyes darting over the crowd of Elves that gathered to welcome them home, seeking out Thranduil who was half-running towards him.

Galadhon and Nemir's families quickly surrounded them drew them off to their own homes and both Legolas and Laersul drew back to let their father in.

The four of them stood close and said little for a moment, each hearing the others' songs and hearing his own amplified by those closest to him. Legolas breathed in, the smell of the forest, leaves and berries and the shady ferns and clear forest river...He felt Thranduil's song soar, its deep, mellowed notes like wine and moonlight and the forest glades and the crown of autumn berries he wore at the feasts.

After a while Thalos reached out and cupped Legolas' cheek lightly and turned his face towards him, searching his face. Thalos' green eyes were full of concern and Legolas dipped his gaze, he could not bear any more sympathy or condemnation. But Thalos simply tapped him on the nose lightly with his forefinger as he used to when Legolas was a child and Thalos a warrior of renown.

'Still shorter than me, Squirt,' he said.

'Still stupider than me, Lackwit,' Legolas returned unimaginatively with the same response he had developed when he was a child and had never found one better or more fun. Thalos cuffed him lightly on the side of the head and Legolas found himself grinning stupidly at his tall, valiant brother.

Thranduil threw his arm around Thalos' shoulder and drew them all away, towards the kitchen for Galion had already gone within.

Legolas dropped back to walk with Laersul and allowed his father to have sole possession of his brother, who was complaining about the smell of his hunters and their lack of delicacy and Thranduil was leaning into him and enjoying having him home. Around them, the families of Galadhon and Nemir were walking slowly towards their talans in a similar way, heads bent towards those closest, sharing news, glad that they were home and safely gathered in.

'At least there is someone he will listen to now,' muttered Legolas to Laersul and when Thranduil shot a look back over his shoulder, he gave a blazingly innocent smile that fooled no one.

'Ah but he listens to me,' Laersul replied smugly. 'It's only you. And who can blame him?' he added mischievously. 'Ow.'

Having restored his honour, Legolas reached around Laersul's shoulder, for in spite of his brothers' assertions that he was shorter than they, it was less than half a head. They followed Thalos and Thranduil over the bridge into the stronghold where Galion would be frantically preparing far too much food and drink and enjoying himself immensely.

'I am starving,' Thalos was saying cheerfully. 'Nothing but black squirrels and goblin for months. I am going to eat and eat and eat until I am quite sick and you have no food left. Then I am going to dance in the Woods with all the maidens who will have me!' He glanced over his shoulder at his brothers and his eyes gleamed wolfishly. 'Galadhon and Nemir are neither good cooks nor good company.' He gave them an enormous and outrageous wink.

'We will have a feast and dancing in the forest glades,' declared Thranduil, apparently oblivious but Legolas saw him smile.

'You should go away more often,' Laersul clapped Thalos on the back. 'Let us go hunting tomorrow morning, see if you can bring down a deer for the feast, Legolas.' He glanced down at Legolas' bowed head and winced. Shaking his head at his own crassness, Laersul leaned down conspiratorially to whisper, 'See if you cannot hide those silver map clasps when next you are in father's study. It will drive Galion wild.'

Legolas smiled. 'Even better, I will hide two clasps,' he whispered back, 'and take away the goblets so they are both driven wild and blame each other.' Laersul laughed loudly enough for Thranduil, who had heard only the laughter and not the reason, to throw them a pleased look over his shoulder at his sons.

He did not want to ruin Thalos' homecoming, but Legolas could not shake off thoughts of that terrifyingly reckless chase into the South of the Forest. And the ignominious return empty-handed in every sense. Even Laersul was now doubting his ability to shoot something, although he had tried to cover it up quickly Legolas thought. He remembered how he had finally gone to his father in the early morning light and Thranduil had drawn him into his arms like he was still a child, and Legolas had leaned on his father's deep chest and listened while he hummed an old woodland lullaby...and it was only then that he wept for Naurion and his childhood friends, Celdir and Anglach.

Legolas berated himself again for his carelessness, blamed himself for allowing Gollum the freedom to climb the tree, and he found his hand clutching again at the cloth above his heart for it hurt when he thought of it.

He found Laersul's hand over his now and his older brother's calm blue-grey eyes upon him, compassionate and sorrowful. He breathed in through his nose and shook his head, wishing they would leave him be to feel the pain; he deserved it.

'You must let this make you burn brighter, Legolas,' he said softly. 'Do not turn it inwards and let it consume you.'

Perhaps they heard in spite of Laersul's softness for both Thalos and Thranduil turned and Thranduil held out his free arm to Legolas. Sheepishly he went forwards and was tucked under his father's arm like a duckling.

0o0o0o

tbc

Notes

*merciful- or giving mercy: this refers to the 'merciful cut', the milui-criss as the Wood-elves call it. (mentioned later in the chapter) In Thranduil's realm, they have long battled the Shadow and when one of them is taken by Orcs and there is no chance of releasing them, the Elves will instead try to release their feä by shooting them dead. It is only the most skillful archer asked to do this of course and in this case, they do not know if they hit Naurion or not. Normally the family would pay the archer a 'price' so that it is acknowledged that the archer has done them a great service but is not a kin-slayer. This is what Gandalf proposed Elrohir to do on the mountain in Sons of Thunder. ( This is not canon but something I invented for Sons but am happy for others to use with an acknowledgement.)

*Oropher moved away from Lothlorien to escape Galadriel's influence. (Silm) It would be reasonable to expect Thranduil to feel the same about her, but in LOTR there is no sense at all that Legolas feels this and therefore I think Thranduil brought his sons up free of the memories and history of the 2nd Age and 3rd Age feuds, etc. In LOTR Legolas seems remarkably uninformed in LOTR- he knows nothing of Hollin or what Durin's Bane is although he recognises it as a Balrog, and I have tried to reflect that in this story.

References to the Dragon connected to the story of how Thranduil went to Erebor during Smaug's reign, and the dragon is part of the yaré-camë (Ancient Art) that some silvan warriors bear. Not a tale to be told now.

Reference to Galion's secret yearning for Thranduil are of course, not canon. But Jael wrote a lovely story, The Rose in the Fisted Glove, which I am sure has nudged me into thinking of Galion in this way.


	3. A Decision Made

Disclaimer - as usual. No money, pure self-indulgence

Beta" Anarithilien.

Thank you to those nice folk who drop a line reviewing and encouraging.

Warning: OK, I really thought this was a new story completely but I have a lovely haunting image of Elrohir and it looks like this will end up a prequel to Sons of Thunder and Songs of Rohan/ Deeper than Breathing. I can't help it- tried not to make it slashy but you know, I just can't help myself. Very mild mention of sexual activity in this chapter- it's probably going to get a bit more explicit later, when Legolas gets to Rivendell, so if that is going to offend you, you might want to read something else.

Chapter 3: A decision made

With the warmth of good food and good wine mingled with singing and laughter, Legolas felt comfortable and relaxed and only in need of one more thing to make him replete. He looked for Theliel, for she had made a point of sitting next to him earlier during the feast and pressed herself against his body more than once, producing a very pleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach...and more importantly, his groin. He pushed himself off the tree against which he had been leaning and set off in search.

Around the clearing were lots of other groups of Elves, singing, laughing, eating, and some were dancing. Silver and white gems on necklaces and sewn onto clothes flashed in the firelight and music filled the air. The boar Laersul had brought down on their hunt was turning on the spit, so the smell of roasting meat filled the air, fat dripped onto the fire and spat and crackled. Galion had refused to bring out the deer that Legolas had brought down or the ducks, saying that the boar was quite enough and they needed to store food for the times ahead, but there was no shortage of delicious things to eat.

Galion was leaning across a table and gazing in drunken adoration at a lovely woman whose husband was sitting beside her but talking to his neighbour. She was blushing prettily and Legolas thought Galion looked positively lecherous. He wondered if he should drag Galion away before things got out of hand but he had his own interests to take care of: Theliel.

Flames leapt and danced from the bonfires, which were lit in four places in the clearing. Above his head were huge glimmering lanterns of glass, some were blues and silver for air, red for fire and green for earth and they swung from the branches of the trees. Above the glade, the stars were huge and bright and seemed closer to the earth as if they wished to see what the Elves were doing. All over the feast, different songs and different voices were raised, and they became louder and mixed with laughter as the different groups of singers competed with each other to be the loudest. Thranduil sent a wineskin to the loudest group and they were cheering him loudly.

At the head of one of the great circles of merry Elves sat Thranduil with a crown of autumn leaves and berries upon his hair. Legolas felt his breath catch for a moment remembering; he and Anglach had been children and his brothers had teased them that the berries were in case Thranduil got hungry. Anglach had stared at Thranduil with enormous wide eyes. He found himself constantly reminded of Celdir and Anglach and it seemed a betrayal not to think of them, to remember them. If they were here, all three of them would have been drinking and gambling together and he suddenly felt their loss so keenly it hurt his chest and his hand clutched the fabric over his heart for a moment.

At that moment Galion passed him and paused. Legolas dropped his hand back to his side and looked away nonchalantly for he was tired of being fussed over. But Galion merely caught his empty cup and poured more wine into it, smiling. 'You are not nearly drunk enough to come and carouse on my talan tonight, Legolas. I want to make sure we keep my neighbour awake until dawn. He might even come and see what the noise is about and join us!' Galion fixed him with a knowing eye until Legolas tossed the wine down his throat. 'It's not the good stuff,' Galion grinned too late to sip and the raw burning in his throat confirmed it was certainly not the good stuff. 'It's from the Edges and is made of moonlight they say. '

'It's from the Edges and made of dragon's piss!' gasped Legolas coughing. 'Give me some more.' It made him burn all the way down to his belly and groin and stopped him thinking. Galion filled his cup far too full and winked lasciviously strutting past a group of women, who laughed and called him over.

There were many Elves who looked up at Legolas too as he passed, met his eye with a glimmer of interest, and some he caught long enough and smiled to let them know he returned their interest. But he really thought Theliel had something about her that he liked. She was older than he was, Laersul's contemporary rather than his, and she had, he thought, been out to catch his older brother, but Laersul would not bite. She was intelligent and she made him laugh and he always sought lovers with whom he could laugh as well as love. Grey eyes and long black hair always drew him, as if a forerunner of something more lasting...Ah. He spotted her beneath the trees, leaning against it and with her hands behind her. Her eyes were cast down and she kept glancing up demurely into the face of the Elf who leaned towards her, close and making her laugh.

Hm. Legolas pursed his lips and thought for a moment. It was, of course, Thalos this time. But he knew how to get rid of him.

He sauntered over, casting his gaze about as if looking for something, someone and then drew close to Thalos.

'Ah, Thalos!' he said trying to combine cheerfulness and innocence with, he thought, some conviction. 'At last. The King has been asking for you this past while. He was most insistent.' Legolas had deliberately used the King to impress upon Thalos that it was in an official capacity that Thranduil requested him and not as his father.

Thalos looked up. His green eyes sparkled shrewdly. 'Really, Legolas? How strange. I was with him but a moment ago and he bid me go off and enjoy the feast.'

Legolas moved closer, maneuvered himself so he stood too close to Theliel and his brother, intrusively. 'You know how impulsive he is,' he said airily. '

'Then he could change his mind in a moment and he will wait.'

Legolas sensed a certain cynicism from his brother so he leaned forwards and whispered conspiratorially, 'He is in his cups, and he and Galion are arguing.'

Was Vairë smiling upon him? For it just so happened that as Thalos looked towards the King, Galion had indeed leaned across to Thranduil and called something that he responded to with a rather cross and grumpy expression on his handsome face, it made him look like you would not want to cross him. And even better, he caught his sons looking at him at that precise moment and beckoned them both over irritably.

'It's you he wants,' they both said at exactly the same time. Then, 'No. You!'

There was a stifled giggle and the last thing they saw was Theliel slipping away into the trees with her hand in Laersul's. Of all people!

'Dûrkë!' spat Thalos. Legolas raised his eyebrows slightly for he had only ever heard Thranduil say that word before and Legolas had had his ears washed out by Galion to make sure he did not remember it.

'He has been ignoring her pursuit for years. Why now?' Legolas complained. 'She was pressing up against me in a very enticing way at the feast.'

'She has been leading me a merry dance!' exclaimed Thalos in disgust but Legolas saw that he was already looking around the clearing for unattached Elves, much as he did himself.

'She will soon discover her mistake,' Legolas sighed. 'He is so old! She's been after him for years, and only now that she pursues me is he interested! He will not be able to keep up and soon she will realise younger is fresher and more eager.' He straightened and glanced at Thalos who was staring morosely around the clearing. Many of the unmarried Elves had coupled off or were in small groups.

'You are mistaken if you think she was pursuing you. I have wasted hours courting her,' Thalos said irritably and Legolas laughed.

'Hours! What a terrible waste in your long, long life,' he slid a mischievous glance at him, 'only to find that she prefers our big brother.'

'How can that be?' Thalos asked, outraged and Legolas laughed even louder and punched Thalos softly on his arm. Thalos laughed then too and they shared a grin.

'She used us both to ensnare Laersul,' Legolas said amused and lifted his eyebrow wryly. He saw that Miriel was sitting with Lossar and both were looking at him in an inviting way. He liked both of them and tilted his head to get a better look, and keeping their gaze he raised his cup to them in salute and promise.

'My heart too is broken,' Thalos said grinning widely and lifted his own cup to Legolas in a toast. 'Will we ever recover?'

'I am already in demand,' Legolas said smugly. 'And when I return from my journey there will be none who can resist,' he added, watching Miriel bend her head towards Lossar and say something that made them both laugh. Lossar's dark eyes cut towards Legolas teasingly.

Thalos snagged a jug of wine from a passing Elf who shook his head and laughed when he saw who it was. Thalos' eyes followed the Elf as he passed. 'He has always fancied me,' he said vainly and slid his hand sensuously along his long dark hair. 'What journey?' he asked without particular interest.

'The King will send me to Rivendell, of course,' Legolas said and pushed himself away from the tree he leaned against. 'Who else is there?'he asked as he moved towards Miriel and Lossar.

Thalos looked up astonished and grasped his sleeve, pulling him back. 'It will not be you, Legolas,' he said in concern. 'It will be me, or Laersul if he can spare him.' He threw his arm round Legolas' shoulder and Legolas stiffened. 'You are about as diplomatic as an Orc, Legolas. He will not even send you to Esgaroth!'

'He will send me this time,' Legolas said, feeling a little defensive. Surely he was not that bad? 'It is only as a messenger,' he added wondering how quickly his mood had changed from lustful promise to sulky childishness.. 'There isn't a council or anything, no trade to negotiate. And anyway, I have grown up a lot since then.' He wondered why he spent so much time with his family telling them he was grown up when he was so long past his coming of age and no one else ever doubted his ability.

'What is that Thranduil says about you in council?' Thalos clapped him on the shoulder. 'As subtle as a dwarf with a hammer?'

'With a hangover,' Legolas corrected him grumpily. He was not as skilled as Thalos, or Laersul but he was no fool. Surely Thalos could see the sense in his going? A strange yearning was in his heart, not just a youthful wanderlust to see beyond the Woods. True, he had travelled beyond the forest to Esgaroth, Dale and even the Lonely Mountain, but this was something more, something that drew him like a scent that once was familiar and now forgotten. It was something that almost called him, making him wonder what it would be like to see real mountains where the snow lay undisturbed and eagles soared high above. And if he was honest, in spite of what Laersul had said to him about burning brighter and not allowing the pain to turn inwards, there was atonement too; it was his fault. He had been amongst Gollum's guards that night they were set upon. And he had missed the milui-criss. Unforgiveable. That more than anything, he needed to atone.

'I can read your mind,' Thalos said warningly. 'He will say no.' Then his voice softened a little. 'Legolas,' he said, leaning down to look into Legolas' face, 'He is right in this. You are amongst our best archers, you know that, and you have fought at Erebor - you have nothing to prove. And we cannot spare you.'

But his voice trailed off and he watched someone. Legolas turned and saw that it was Nauriel and that she was speaking to their father. Most of the Elves around Legolas had not noticed and the singing and feasting continued and he could not hear her words. She gesticulated angrily, throwing her hand out to indicate the feast it seemed, and Thranduil's face assumed the impassive mask of kingship, of stone.

Thranduil did not interrupt her, and when she finally finished, he turned his fierce gaze upon her and spoke so quietly that only she could hear and she staggered back, breathing hard as if she had been struck even though he had not lifted his hand. When she turned and fled, her face was white. Thranduil lifted his goblet and his hand was steady as a rock as he sipped the wine. He smoothly turned back to the Elves with whom he had been speaking before Nauriel came.

Suddenly aware that Thalos had left his side and that the singing around him had faltered, Legolas swung his gaze to Galion, who had focused all his attention on Thranduil's face and was intent. Galion pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the lovely woman he had been flirting with and was instantly at Thranduil's side, discretely topping his goblet. He slid into a seat next to him and smoothly took over telling some story which quickly had the small group laughing. Although Thranduil smiled along with the others in the group, Legolas could see his eyes were chips of ice and he wondered what in all of Arda Nauriel had said to make Thranduil so full of cold fury; he rarely was truly angry at anyone but the Enemy, and the Noldor...and Dwarves. He had certainly only been full of compassion for Nauriel until then.

Music flooded the glade then and one of the minstrels strolled into the clearing, strumming a harp. Everyone settled then to listen and Legolas looked about him. Many of the other Elves could not have heard what Nauriel had said and seemed unaware that anything untoward had happened, but some of the Elves nearest Thranduil had expressions of distress or concern on their faces. He saw Thalos returning to him, his face grave. 'She cursed him,' he said.

Legolas turned to him, shocked. 'What did she say?'

Thalos was quiet for a moment and then he rubbed his eyes. 'She said she wished that he would know what it was to lose a son.'

Legolas gasped, unable to speak and Thalos turned back to peruse the clearing.

'It is not often that someone wishes your death,' Thalos acknowledged rather too glibly. 'She should have her wish, for the Shadow comes. And there are three of us so the odds are good. So you must stay in the forest, little brother. We need you to guard our backs as you did Laersul. And even if no one else will say it, I am glad Laersul lives even it was at Naurion's expense. I still shudder at the thought that both of you were so far south.'

Legolas looked away and pulled at the cuff of his shirt slightly. He was not sure what he thought about this but there was, deep in his heart, a warmth and gladness that at least someone thought he had done right. But at the same time he was strangely unsettled by Nauriel's curse. He wondered what Thranduil had said in response for she had looked like the ghost of Smaug himself had appeared. He was about to ask Thalos but he found he did not really want to know; Legolas had seen the King in both hot rage and cold fury, but this had been worse than anything. He had glimpsed in his father a cold stone that was implacable, and that he had never seen before in Thranduil either as his father or his King.

'I have never understood why the Nazgûl and Orcs are so determined to travel into our realm to harass us when Lórien is so close,' said Legolas, He shook his head slowly for he and his fellow warriors had often pondered this. 'We should attack Dol Guldur now while the Nazgul are absent, Thalos. Lórien might even help.'

When Thalos did not reply, he thought his brother probably knew a lot more than he did, but it had never rankled him. He would prefer not to know. But if he was not one of the Wise, he was not a quite fool either. He turned to look at Thalos fully. 'Is that in the King's mind then, Thalos? Did you make a detour to Lórien on your way home?'

Thalos grinned and ruffled his hair so it was tousled and stuck out and though he tried to bat Thalos' hand away, he was taller and reached above him. 'You are not as stupid as you look!' said Thalos, grinning at him. 'But he will still not send you to Imladris. It will be Laersul he sends for I am going elsewhere.'

'Elsewhere? What does that mean?'

'There are strange reports coming from Dale and the King wishes to make sure our allegiances are secure.' For all of them when they referred to their father as Thranduil or the King, it meant official business, not family. Legolas wondered what was happening in Dale that made Thranduil order his second, and most diplomatic son there.

'He will let me go if you tell him to,' Legolas said determinedly. 'You know I am the best person. It's only to tell Mithrandir what happened, not like there will be any meetings or councils. It's not like I have to actually represent the Woods,' he pleaded. 'All I have to do is tell Mithrandir what it was like, what happened and then leave. I can do this.'

Thalos laughed then, but kindly. He gave him a sidelong look that was considering, appraising. 'Thranduil has decided to send Alagos,' he said then and Legolas gave an exasperated sigh.

'Am I never going to be allowed anywhere beyond Esgaroth?' he said.

'You have been to Dale and Erebor.'

'I have been to Dale, true. And I have been allowed to look at the Dwarves but not stare! And I was not allowed to speak in Dale.'

Thalos smiled and nudged him. 'Do not be in such a rush. Perhaps he will send you to Lórien instead.'

'He will never let me set foot in Lórien,' Legolas slurped wine gloomily. 'He wouldn't trust me.'

'It's not just you he wouldn't trust,' Thalos said cryptically, glancing at his brother's sweet face and his long flaxen hair.

Some of the Elves had begun lining up to begin the Fire-Leap. More dry wood was being thrown onto the fire to build it higher and the flames leaped and danced and the women joined hands and made a large circles around the bonfires. They were not so foolish to take part. It was for the young men to show off.

'Look, Laersul's going first!' Thalos nudged Legolas. They laughed for he was definitely showing off to Theliel.

Later, flushed with wine and exertion, there were only five Elves left still leaping. One was Legolas, and Thalos had just bowed out. The flames cast a red-yellow glow around the clearing and lit up the Elves still passing bowls around, pouring wine, singing, laughing. Firelight glinted on the green and white and silver gems on their collars and belts and on the necklaces of the women. Legolas was about to take his next leap. The fires had been stoked higher so flames leaped and flared and the smoke rose into the sky through the cleared area between the trees.

Suddenly he felt the world tilt and he thought the smoke was yellow, and instead of singing, there was screaming. They were running, not dancing and it was steel glinting instead of gems...

The world righted itself and he looked around himself startled. There was Thranduil, watching, waiting for him to leap and Galion leaning against him, arm thrown around Thranduil's shoulder, drunk and slurring affectionately at the King. Laersul stood nearby with Thalos, their heads bent talking quietly, and some sweet maidens waited for him on the other side of the fire, even cheered for him. Miriel and Lossar were there too.

He shook his head slightly, took a few long strides and leaped into the air, flew over the bonfire and crashed into the maidens, tumbling over and landing at Miriel and Lossar's feet. There were excited giggles from the maidens and he was showered with small white flowers they had been holding in their hands and he looked up at their lovely faces smiling beatifically.

'Oh, I think I am hurt,' he grinned and let them drop to their knees around him in consternation, their hands fluttered around him, and he basked in their concern.

0o0o0

Legolas let his hand trail over the silvery bark of the beech trees and looked up into their high, graceful boughs. These were Thranduil's favourite trees and this was where he had his talan, near the river, near the Keep. After the feast few Elves had felt like returning to the stronghold in spite of the recent attack, not even the king. Legolas heard a small harp's fluid notes high up in the trees, an old silvan love song, and he knew the player was his father, for Thranduil was a very skilled musician, even amongst the Woodelves. He wondered if Thranduil had played it to his mother.

A small group of Elves passed and greeted him. They strolled along the river bank. He saw that Miriel was amongst them and she gave him a smile. 'We are joining Galadhon and his family for evening meal,' she told him. 'Come with us.' Others joined their voices to hers but Legolas shook his head seriously.

'I have something I need to ask the King,' he told them. They laughed and tried to cajole him further and Miriel caught at his hand. 'Maybe later,' he agreed, remembering the night before and her silken skin, the fragrance of her body roused and lost in desire.

He watched them for a moment as they wandered away between the trees to the glade where Galadhon lived in his small cottage on the ground, for not everyone lived on talans. Where there were children, often the cottages had more room. He was a little surprised though that Galadhon was one of the Elves who resisted the safety of the caves, for he had small children. But Legolas understood too for he loved being in the Woods and slept best on his high talan amongst the oaks. Miriel turned to look at him as they disappeared between the trees and he hoped she understood there was no more to their coupling than there was. He chewed his lip slightly. There had been no such misunderstanding later on, with Lossar, but he would be surprised if there had been.

He set his hand on the lowest bole of the beech and began to climb, swiftly making his way up into the topmost branches where a more substantial talan was built. It was not grander or larger than any other Woodelf's talan, but like all the oldest talans, it had been built over many years, and with grace and elegance. The carvings were ornate but not ostentatious and the sweep of the curved edge of the talan was bevelled and carved with vine leaves. The way onto the talan was no mere hole in the platform as Legolas' own talan was; it seemed the wood had fashioned itself around a space and the silver wood of the talan merged to become part of the tree itself. There was no furniture, just a woven rug, cushions and a cloak hanging over the branches. Yet in spite of the simplicity, it felt sumptuous. He saw an earthenware jug of wine, a platter of rare meat, pewter goblets shining dully, a wooden board with creamy cheese and a carved bowl of apples. Above, the autumnal canopy filtered the sunlight coolly and dappled the shade. A simple woven reed screen had been secured to shelter Thranduil from the westerly wind that brought tales and dreams from distant shores. Those were unwelcome.

Thranduil sat cross legged and lounging slightly against large blue velvet cushions and in his hands the small harp Legolas had heard as he ascended. The sunlight brushed Thranduil's deep golden hair and it shone. Then he raised his green eyes to Legolas and it looked like all the colour from the Woods had been absorbed into them; it was uncanny, but Legolas knew of the King's deep connection with their forest, that the trees knew and acknowledged him somehow, that the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth knew him and bowed...and the liquid notes of the Woods thrummed his heartstrings and he felt the Song resonate deep in his blood and bones and sinew and muscle.

'You hear it. It was always strong for you. Most Silvan of us all you are, my leaf.'

Legolas smiled in spite of the childish nickname- it had always been affectionate. He sat on the cushions, close to his father, and felt his warmth while Thranduil let his long fingers drift over the harp strings a moment longer before he set it aside and rose to his feet. 'Wine?'

Legolas nodded, Thranduil always had decent wine and watched him pour wine into a pewter goblet, its soft silver gleam reflected the ruby ring Thranduil always wore.

Thranduil sank back onto the cushions, leaned on one elbow and looked out over the tops of the trees, for his talan was very high and the tree in which it was built was on the side of the hill beneath which the palace and stronghold were. The evening wind played in the treetops and the purple emperor butterflies danced in the tops of the oak and beech trees. It amused Legolas no end that Galion's talan was in the next tree, too close to be quite polite in silvan society, and below the King's. Sometimes Thranduil had complained about the noise. And sometimes, not that Thranduil knew, it had been Legolas who had been making the noise.

'A lovely evening,' was all Thranduil said and Legolas shifted, wondering how to broach the subject he wanted to raise. He did not want his father to think he had only come because he wanted something, and he knew that he would get no favours from the King because he was his son. 'Did you end your evening well yesterday?' Thranduil asked and a smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

The feast had indeed ended well and Legolas grinned.

Amused, Thranduil lifted an eyebrow. 'It ended well for all of you I think. I have not seen Laersul all day.'

'I feel used,' said Legolas but he smiled too.

'Yes, I can see how upset you were,' Thranduil replied drily. 'You showed misery in every line of your body as you danced with all those maidens. And then the fire-leaping. Galion was most concerned.'

'Galion was most occupied,' Legolas said and his grin widened.

'Galion was carousing most of the night,' said Thranduil mildly.

'Did you not go and join him?'

Thranduil lifted an eyebrow wryly and they both smiled at each other and turned back to the evening sky that was deepening from the sunset to dusk. A small bat whisked over the treetops.

Although neither spoke of Nauriel, it hung between them. It was too raw a wound for both of them, Legolas thought.

Thranduil sipped his wine and looked at Legolas over his goblet. His green eyes had flecks of gold in them, like a falcon, and was as piercing and astute. Legolas had never been able to hide anything from his father even if he had wanted to.

'Are you much recovered now, child?'

Legolas dipped his eyes, half smiling. Child? That hardly boded well for the request he intended to make.

Thranduil did not have to see the mild annoyance to know it was there. He raised an eyebrow, amused. 'You will always be my child, whether you fight in the battles or love in the treetops, Legolas. Whatever you do, when I look at you I see that tiny body that I could fit in the crook of my arms and for whom I whittled a pony when he lay belly-down in the long grass wheedling.'

Legolas smiled, remembering that long Summer day he had had his father all to himself...

…sawdust and shavings lay on the grass around him and Legolas looked up wonderingly at his tall father, so big and sometimes stern, sitting quietly, cross-legged on the daisy-scattered grass. His long, clever fingers lightly held a silver knife and pale slivers of wood peeled away under his skillful hands.

'What is it?' Legolas' own childish voice piped up. He was lying on his tummy on the grass next to Thranduil, chin in his hands and legs swinging behind him. He had been watching an ant wrestle a breadcrumb into its strong jaws to take home to its family. Legolas wanted to help but he knew now that sometimes when he tried to help, it did not help at all. Laersul had said to him only that morning that sometimes he had to let Nature win. So he was trying to do just that and not interfere.

Thranduil had slowly raised his eyes to look at his youngest son. A slow smile eased across his strong noble face.

'It is a horse, child,' he said and Legolas felt a spurt of excitement.

'Is it Mithren?' he asked, thinking of his father's big grey stallion. Legolas was a little afraid of Mithren. His hooves were enormous, and sometimes when he shook his head the whole world seemed to shake.

'No.'

Legolas watched a little while longer. Of course it was not Mithren, he realised. This was much smaller. Shorter. He knew it could not be either of his brothers' horses either for they were big like Mithren. If either of their horses had such short legs, they would have their feet dragging on the ground. Legolas snorted with laughter at the thought of Laersul or Thalos riding short ponies and being able to stand up as the ponies trotted off from under them.

Of course! 'It is a pony,' he realised. And then he sighed heavily but did not speak his desire because his father would be cross if he whined and he was enjoying having this peaceful time with him. But he really really wanted a pony. One that would run on the grass under the trees and stars. Star. That's what he would call it. Or Starlight.

He realised the soft sound had ceased and glanced up to find Thranduil looking at him with concern but too quickly smoothed away when Legolas saw him. He wondered what his father was worried about. He knew Thranduil had been very angry about the Orcs but that was not Legolas's fault. He thought hard to see if he had done something that would annoy or upset his father. He could not think of anything but sometimes grown ups seemed to get upset over nothing.

Legolas breathed through his nose, but his eyes were soft with memory. 'I am much recovered, father.' It was always Orcs.

There was a comfortable silence. A smell of leaves and late sumer grass. A blackbird pinked the evening and robin joined in.

'This is how it should be.'

Legolas hummed agreement and let the warmth of the sun soothe him, the memory of the previous night's long, passionate loving had left his limbs soft and body sated and the wine in his hand was mellow. He felt himself soothed, drifted.

'In Imladris and Lórien, it is like this all the time,' Thranduil's voice went on dreamily. 'There is never danger or attack. There the Shadow does not penetrate.'

Legolas frowned slightly. He knew this of course; it was one of Galion's favourite diatribes to complain sarcastically that for all their wisdom, the 'Sit-On-Your-Arse-Wise' were only any good for sitting on their arses. But once when he was small and young he had asked Galion why the Wise were the Wise and Galion had said it was because they were not Woodelves and therefore more Wise by birth and that the folk of the Wood were more dangerous and less wise, but they had a lot more fun. Galion had gone on to explain too how being Wise meant that you became too damn clever by half and ended up fighting and killing people. Legolas mused that he was no clearer now than he had been then.

'And Orthanc?' he wondered aloud, for there dwelt Saruman, the Head of both the White Council and the Wizards' order.

Thranduil made a noise in his throat that was almost a growl. 'Orthanc is not immune to the Shadow,' he said cryptically.

Legolas frowned a little. 'I asked Thalos why Dol Guldur leaves Lórien untended,' he ventured, not expecting an answer for he had never had one before.

Thranduil seemed to ignore the question, looking down at his fingers running over the strings of the harp, tilted his head to consider the melody and his long, deep gold hair slipped over one shoulder. Legolas watched his hard-edged profile, sculpted lips, straight nose, his eyes downcast. Laersul favoured him most, he thought.

'Thalos would not tell me either,' he said wryly. 'I suppose that is wise considering I am not trusted to go anywhere or do anything but fight or hunt.' He knew it sounded petulant and was annoyed with himself for sounding like the child they thought him.

Thranduil paused then. Glancing up at Legolas, he lay his harp to one side. Still he did not answer but instead sipped wine and stared out westwards over the trees; his eyes narrowed and his face looked sharper, hawk-like. Legolas bit his tongue, chiding himself for his outburst and followed Thranduil's gaze, trying to see beyond the Woods, far, far into the West where the Hithaeglir reached and broke the back of Middle Earth into two; Rhovanion and Eriador.

'That way is Imladris,' Thranduil said eventually, almost in a dream, seeming to ignore Legolas' petulance and question in equal measure. Then he turned his deep green eyes to Legolas who could never hide anything. It always seemed to him that Thranduil reached into his heart and understood everything, knew every secret thought, every wish, every disappointment. He understood, and right now, that hurt unbearably.

'That way is Imladris,' Thranduil said again, turning his head back towards the West. 'It is the First House West of the Mountains. I fear for you if you go there as I know you wish.'

Legolas felt his heart sink. He should have known. He bowed his head. 'I will do as you wish, father.' He did not see his father's sorrowful smile that was full of pride too.

'You have nothing to prove. Legolas,' Thranduil said gently and reached out to stroke away his hair from his face. 'I have watched how you dealt with this...terrible thing. And you grieve for your friends, I know.'

Legolas lifted his eye to meet his father's. He tried not to pull his gaze away but there was such compassion he could not bear it and he dipped his head to look at his hands. He missed Anglach unbearably.

...laughing, slapping his thighs in delight at Legolas' misfortune, pulling his hand to come and join them drinking on the riverbank...running as children and hurling themselves from the riverbank into the deep pool...Anglach's body, slumped against the tall beech where Gollum was allowed to climb, crusted in blood, hacked about by thick orcish blades, his arms cut off, his face defiled, flies crawling at the corner of his open eyes...

Legolas blinked and swallowed the heave in his stomach. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and stared upwards where the last sunlight played on the still green leaves, aware that Thranduil watched, that he knew what Legolas struggled with, for had he not experienced that so many times himself?

He heard Thranduil shuffle a cushion towards him but he shrugged it away, not wanting comfort of any kind; he did not deserve it. At least he could rely on his father not to give any platitudes, he thought and was not bitter about that but grateful. He had long ago come of age and seen too many deaths to not understand. He twisted the cup in his hand thinking that he had not yet visited Anglach's family and he should...He wondered if his desire to take the message to Mithrandir was running away...

'It gets no easier.'

He dipped his head in agreement and pressed his lips together, heard his father swirl the wine in his cup and inhale the scent of it.

He heard Thranduil take in a long breath through his nose and out, and then the clink of the earthenware jug as he filled his cup again, and then filled Legolas', but only half way. He found himself smiling in spite of everything.

'Oropher used to say; You must let this make you burn brighter. Do not turn it inwards and let it consume you. Turn it outwards against the Enemy.' Thranduil said softly. Legolas leaned slightly towards him for Thranduil rarely spoke of Oropher though Galion was full of stories. 'It is too easy to lose yourself in the Shadow, to seek personal atonement.'

He winced. That was it. He would not be allowed to go now for he knew his quest was at least in part personal atonement even though he tried hard not to let it be. Guilt so often engulfed him.

But Thranduil seemed lost in memory, gazing into the distant West, cup hanging from his fingers and his long deep gold hair lifted in the breeze that ruffled the beech's still green leaves.

'That way lies the madness that has taken the Sons of Elrond. I do not wish that for you.' He smiled at Legolas' wriggle of discomfort. 'But it is not in your nature I think,' he said softly. 'We will fight the Shadow with every breath, every bone and every drop of blood. But we will still sing, and feast and dance under the beech trees, run in the open fields and plains and make merry. For that way the Shadow cannot defeat us. And if we are feasting beneath the hill in the caverns, the Shadow can still not defeat us.'

He turned to Legolas and there was a sparkle of joyful fury, passionate love in those long green eyes flecked with amber and gold, like a falcon. 'We will never despair. The Noldor talk of the Long Defeat. Never think of that, never believe it.'

In his heart, Legolas felt the Song then, distantly at first and then rushing towards him like an eagle's plummet, it rose and soared and rose and soared so that the notes lifted him and he felt such tremendous easing in his heart that he looked at his strong, handsome father, the King and smiled. Thranduil stared a little and then pulled Legolas' head onto his shoulder, and though he could not see, he knew that Thranduil grieved a little for the resemblance to his own long-gone wife, beloved of his heart.

Above them, the first stars appeared. Around them, first one and then another voice rose from the trees surrounding them as the Elves greeted the Star-Kindler.

As if no time had elapsed, Thranduil continued. 'I hope Mithrandir will be in Imladris. I hope he has not gone to Curunír for I do not trust him; his Song is discordant and he is proud and vain...If he is not there, you must find Aragorn instead. He is the Man who brought Gollum here and him I do trust. Alagos will go as my envoy.'

Legolas had stopped listening, focused entirely upon one word: you. You will find Aragorn instead...But he had also said Alagos will go as his envoy...

'Father, do you mean...? I am confused. Did you not just say that I will find Aragorn in Imladris,' he asked hesitantly, hardly daring to look at Thranduil for he knew his eyes shone with hope.

'I will say it again so you are clear. If Mithrandir is not in Imladris, you must find Aragorn and tell him. I trust him. Alagos however, is my envoy. You are going as a witness so that they understand what Gollum cost us.'

'You mean I will go to Imladris as your messenger?' he squeaked, yes, it was a squeak but later he admitted to Thalos it may even have been a squeal.

'Elbereth, no! Listen to what I have said, Legolas!' Thranduil looked at him alarmed. 'Alagos is my envoy. He is in charge. You go only as the witness,' he said insistently. 'Legolas, I love you, you are my son and a superb hunter and tracker and archer, warrior, but I would rather kiss Aulë's hairy balls than let you be my messenger or envoy.' He reached out and stroked Legolas hair to take away the sting of his outburst which was heartfelt. 'And that is all you are to do. Alagos is in charge and you must do whatever he tells you; he knows the ways of these Noldor and he will make sure you come to no harm or get yourself into any trouble. Your task is to make sure that Mithrandir, or if he is not there, Aragorn, knows exactly what this has cost us. You must tell ...'

'Yes, yes. I understand,' Legolas interrupted laughing because he was so delighted to be going to Imladris that he did not mind Thranduil's shocked response.

'You remember Esgaroth,' Thranduil said, looking at Legolas meaningfully.

'It was not so bad,' Legolas said playfully. 'It ended well.'

'It ended well because Thalos intervened.'

Legolas knew that was true and resolved to be good. 'I promise I'll be...' he began but Thranduil held up his hand.

'Legolas. I love you. I love even your faults and they are many, as are mine. I love that you are about to make a promise you could not keep anymore than you could stop breathing. So please, just do as Alagos tells you and then you can stay true to yourself in every other way.' He pulled Legolas' head down to kiss the top of his head as he could not do to Laersul or Thalos. 'And I would not wish you to be anything but.'

0o0o0

When Legolas clattered noisily and unelvishly down from Thranduil's talan he could not wait to tell his brothers and ran along the forest path to Laersul's talan first and called up to him. Laersul did not answer and when he listened, he could hear his brother was not there. Still with Theliel, he guessed and grinned inanely. Thalos however, was striding along the river bank and greeted Legolas before he even saw him.

'So you are going to Rivendell,' he said before Legolas even had time to tell him.

'How did you know?'

'Alagos is going to Rivendell with you and is under strict orders not to let you speak or step out of his sight for the whole two days you will be there,' Thalos announced while ignoring his question.

'Two days? How do you know?' Legolas did not know why he ever bothered asking any of them any questions, for they were never answered. But he was just an archer in one of the companies so he did not think on it for too long.

Thalos pulled him down to sit upon a mossy boulder by the river. 'I am going to Erebor and Laersul is needed here.'

A small bat whizzed past and Thalos' hand shot out. He opened it slowly and within, the little bat was cradled trembling. 'Good evening little sister,' he said. Its eyes regarded Thalos beadily and it stopped trembling and instead crawled along his hand and nestled in his sleeve. He smiled down at it, stroked its fur lightly and then held up his hand. It seemed reluctant to leave but a juicy moth whirred slowly past and its hunger proved too much. It leapt into the air and was gone.

'Erebor?'

Thalos pursed his lips for a moment and watched the small flies on the river. The bat whizzed between them, swinging one way then another and turning in impossibly tight circles. 'Erebor has been visited by messengers from Sauron,' he said slowly. 'They have been told to throw in their lot with the Dark Lord or to risk obliteration. They have been promised a Ring.'

'A Ring?'

'One of the Dwarf Rings of Power.'

Legolas gasped. A Ring of Power was a blighted gift surely? But the Dwarves were a strange folk and who knew what they would give for gold and treasure. He remembered them in the Battle of the Five Armies, how they fought, how they sang, their deep voices in battle cry and his father had called them berserkers, like the strange fighters from the South he had seen in Dagorlad, and who had no fear. For the Dwarves to fall to the Enemy would mean Dale and Esgaroth would fall too, and then the Elves would be trapped between the Mountain and the Tower. He shuddered.

'They will not fall,' Thalos said confidently. 'They sent a delegation to Thranduil whilst we were away to warn him. The Enemy has not bothered with us, it seems. But we stand between Sauron and the Mountain and he cannot reach Dain except through us...or if Dain surrenders. But if the Mountain should fall, there is nothing left but us.'

Legolas felt suddenly afraid. The end seemed bitterly close and he was carrying one more message of failure. And yet...he was torn. He would have loved to go with Thalos, to go into that secret realm of Erebor, to see the great Hall now lit up with globes of light and molten jewels, to hear the strange, deep chant of the Dwarves' Song... Thalos suddenly laughed.

'Now I see you wish to go to Erebor as well. You cannot do both, little brother.' He sobered. 'The journey over the Hithaeglir is long and arduous. It is full of goblins now since they started to creep back from the Battle of Erebor. And the road that Gil-Galad took to cross the Mountains is long fallen into disrepair.' His green eyes suddenly caught Legolas and he looked uncertain. 'My heart suddenly misgives...you will not be unchanged.'

A shiver crept down Legolas' spine for his brother sometimes had these moments and he thought far off he heard a strange call and a scent just on the edge of his awareness and it reached down into him and pulled at his core.

But he said quietly, 'You are too fanciful, Thalos. The air is full of strange noises and the forest is restless. There is nothing else.'

Thalos lifted his hand and pushed a tendril of hair back from Legolas' face in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture. 'Be careful, little brother.'

Legolas tilted his head and looked at Thalos in strange mixture of bemusement, puzzled and concern. 'And you, Thalos.' He shook himself for the moment was too intense and grinned. 'Galion owes me a very nice mithril engraved knife,' he added. 'I bet him I would be sent to Imladris. He did not believe me.'

'That is why I am going to Erebor and you are going to Imladris,' Thalos nudged him cheerfully. 'Thranduil would rather you fleeced Elrond than our neighbours. And he would rather your...indiscretions remained far from home so they do not come back to haunt you, or us,' he said. 'But be warned, little brother. Elves do not go away and anything you do in Imladris is likely to have consequences.'

tbc

Note: Gloin tells the Council of Elrond that they have received an emissary from Sauron. It seems likely that they would have at least passed this on to their closest neighbours in the Mannish and Elvish settlements. If nothing else, they would have asked Thranduil for safe passage through his Woods I think. And after the Battle of the Five Armies, although Gloin is still sore, Thranduil behaved very well to the dwarves and put Thorin's sword on his tomb.

Non-Canon Characters

Laersul - oldest son of Thranduil

Thalos- second son of Thranduil

Theliel- a maiden courting Laersul

Celdir and Anglach- two of the elves killed in the Orc raid

Nauriel - mother of Naurion

Naurion - one of the elves taken by Orcs in the raid

Miriel and Lossar - two Elves who have caught Legolas' eye


	4. The Best Laid Plans

Thranduil sends Legolas to bear witness to the price paid by the Woodelves of Gollum's escape, but in Imladris Legolas will meet his destiny, Elrohir, Son of Thunder.

Warnings for later chapters: violence and slash.

Travelling times and distances estimated according to MeARA, the OrginalCompany. Walking distances calculated using .com, estimated height and walking speed.

Timeline for Chapter 4 and 5:

7th October: Leave for Imladris

14th-15th: Reach the Old Ford and set off on the trail to the High Pass.

16-18th: Return to the Old Ford- although a descent, the circumstances would make travelling much slower.

19-20th: Back at the start of the High Pass

23rd: Descent into Rivendell

24th: Arrives in Rivendell

25th: The Council of Elrond

Chapter 4: The Best Laid Plans

6th October

It was late and the stars were bright above the trees. Frost drifted in the air for it was October and the oak and beech leaves had turned gold and red in the Wood, their song deep and settled towards sleep. Legolas did not linger though for he had been called by Galion to go to the King's chambers. He had said it emphatically so that Legolas knew this was not his father but his King. Galion had not gone with him but settled comfortably on Legolas' own flet while Legolas himself climbed down and walked towards the stronghold. He met Laersul as he crossed the bridge and stood before the open doors of the King's palace and stronghold.

At Legolas' enquiring glance, Laersul shrugged and said, 'You have as much idea as I.'

'Is Thalos back from Dale? Perhaps that is why?' Legolas suggested and Laersul nodded briefly. Thranduil had been restless since he had gone, even telling Laersul that he, Thranduil, should have gone himself and it was not a criticism of Thalos but a measure of his disquiet.

'He returned earlier, Galion told me,' said Laersul following Legolas through the great stone doors. 'Perhaps there is news from Dale.'

The doors of the stronghold slid closed silently, smoothly and not even a crack showed when it had shut. Within, torches flared and sputtered, casting long shadows, catching the glitter of quartz and veins of minerals in the stone walls.

Laersul threw his arm over Legolas' shoulder companionably. 'Have you seen much of Miriel since the feast?' he asked. 'Or Lossar?' he added with a little more curiosity, giving his brother a sideways glance.

Legolas laughed and said without rancour, 'Probably less than you have seen of Theliel. You have been very elusive and missed several hunts.' He raised an eyebrow at the slight flush that crept over his normally unruffled older brother's cheeks. 'Are you in love, Laersul?' he asked surprised, and pleased, for he loved his older brother and would like nothing more than his happiness.

Laersul dropped his arm back to his side and looked down thoughtfully. 'I have not felt like this about anyone else, it is true,' he replied slowly. 'And I have known her all my life. It is strange to suddenly realise that the person you used to play with in the river mud, is someone you feel such...desire for,' he blurted out and Legolas laughed. 'No, I mean...it is more. I feel...' He laughed softly, almost as if he were alone. 'I suppose I mean yes.'

Legolas pulled his brother against him and squeezed him affectionately and Laersul looked at him a little shyly. 'Don't tell anyone yet, please?'

'I have to consider what is in my own best interests I am afraid,' Legolas teased, delighted. 'If I know then Thalos knows, and if Thalos knows Galion knows, and if Galion knows, and Thranduil does not know but I know, and someone else tells him first and he knows that I know he will not be pleased.' He stepped to one side to let Laersul go through a doorway into the passage that led to the King's chambers, and then said, as if he had considered all this very carefully. 'Whereas if I tell him, he will be pleased for you and pleased with me. Of course, you could support me in case he is going to change his mind about sending me to Imladris. He has said nothing since and I am sure he only said I could go in a weak moment,' he added gloomily.

They saw that the door to the King's chambers was slightly open and orange light sliced the darkness. Both hastened their steps as if summoned to be quick.

Laersul pulled Legolas back for a second. 'Promise you will not say and I will promise you my support.'

Legolas grinned. 'I would not say anything anyway,' he said.

Laersul smiled back. 'And I have already told him you should go' He pushed past then with a grin at Legolas' astonishment.

The draught caught at the torches as they entered and the flames flared, casting great shadows of the pillars that had been carved like trees. Thalos was already there, leaning nonchalantly against one of the pillars so he looked for a moment as he had in the Wood at the feast, thought Legolas. He gave his brother a warm smile in greeting and Thalos nodded but his face was serious and concerned. Alagos, the King's Messenger was there but also Galadhon, who had accompanied Thalos on the hunt for Gollum. He looked wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed and Laersul smiled slightly at him and nodded reassurance. But Legolas felt a flutter of anxiety, for Thranduil would not hesitate to change his mind if he thought it in the best interests of the Wood and he may well have thought better of sending Legolas. Surely the only reason for Galadhon's presence would be that he was to go with Alagos? He felt himself slump slightly. Legolas knew Galadhon well, having fought with him in the South as well as Erebor. They had hunted together and he was Thalos' friend besides; Galadhon would make a good emissary for the Wood, he told himself, and tried to be generous.

Thranduil himself was leaning over the table with the map. The firelight caught on the strong bones of his face, casting a shadow of his lashes on his cheek and stroking his golden hair. He glanced up at his two sons as they stopped before him; his enquiring gaze lingered a little longer on Laersul as if he had noticed something different. Laersul blushed like a maid and Thranduil discreetly looked away, but his eyes were soft.

Having already decided he was about to be disappointed, Legolas pulled up a stool and slumped opposite his father. He leaned his elbow on the table and sighed, resting his cheek against his hand. He waited for a moment and then reached across the map to trace the jagged line that looked like small teeth and represented the Hithaeglir. He felt sure now that he would never see those great mountains, never come to Imladris and his heart gave a strange somersault as if he had missed his chance at something beyond his comprehension, beyond his experience, like part of his soul was missing and could not be recovered.

But this was fanciful surely and he shook himself slightly; he did not have the gift that Thalos had, or their father's deep comprehension of the Wood.

Laersul came to stand next to him and leaned over to move the inkstand to one side and to fix the clasps on the edges of the had barely moved and remained deep in thought, leaning still against the carved pillar. Galadhon went to stand beside him and only then did he stir slightly.

Thranduil rose to his feet then and let his deep-green eyes rest on each one of them as if weighing his worth. Legolas lifted his eyes to his father's and half-smiled, steeling himself for disappointment, instead he felt his father's affection and love and concern envelop him.

At last Thranduil turned his attention back to the map. He was brief then, and to the point, as was his way. No one was surprised, except perhaps Galadhon. 'A message must be taken over the Mountains to Mithrandir in Imladris,' said Thranduil. 'He must know that his creature, Gollum, has escaped and disappeared into the southern range, near to Moria.'

Legolas followed the line that had been drawn from the edge of the Wood to the mountains and then dotted towards Moria. He felt a light prickle down his spine at the thought of the Black Pit, but he would never see it, he told himself. Even if he were still to take the message, to bear witness to Smeagol's escape, his journey would not take him that far South.

'I want him to know the decision to abandon the search was not taken lightly,' Thranduil continued. 'He entrusted us with this creature, and I would have him know that we have done everything.'

'I am ready to leave within the hour, my lord,' Alagos said, standing tall, his bright eyes glittering in the half-lit room. He eyed Galadhon with disdain. 'And with respect to Galadhon,' he said without any respect whatsoever, 'I have not needed a guard before.'

'No, you have not,' Thranduil replied seriously and Legolas slumped slightly further. He knew it, that look in his father's eyes had been apologetic but determined, and Legolas had been right about why Galadhon was there; he would be going as the witness, for he had tracked Gollum as far as was possible and he would be so much better.

'But the way is changed since last you travelled to Imladris, Alagos,' Thranduil said and Legolas was aware that his gaze rested briefly upon Legolas himself and he sighed, steeling himself and determined to be gracious. 'It may well be impassable now, for in the years since the Battle of Erebor goblins have been creeping back into the mountains and the Nazgul are abroad; I know not where those dreadful servants of the Shadow are, though I have my suspicions. And that is the reason you must make haste and I send others with you to ensure the message reaches him. ' Thranduil paused and glanced at Thalos so Legolas thought they must have spent more time privately discussing this. 'There are rumours too of things worse than goblins. Shepherds and the woodmen tell tales of a blood-sucking creature that leaves corpses desiccated and skeletal, their hands outstretched as if pleading.' He looked thoughtfully into the fire. 'That may be Gollum for these were the rumours when he first came out of the Mountains hunting Mr Baggins.' His face hardened then and he looked up. 'The Nine are abroad and searching. I do not want them to find any Elves. And I would warn Master Baggins too if I could.'

He turned then to Legolas and his green eyes gleamed. 'Tell them in Imladris that we still hold out in the Woodland Realm with no help,' he said with that cold hardness he sometimes had, that made even the air still. He did not take his eyes from Legolas. 'Tell them that we still fight the Shadow though they are safe for now...but that as I told the White Council many, many times before, Sauron moves. His hand is in this...if they do not already know.'

Legolas lifted his gaze to meet his father's bright fire. He felt a sudden lance of the Elvenking's own determined hope that kept him standing strong and resolute against the Shadow whatever may come, and excited pride surged through him for Thranduil smiled gently then and Legolas knew he would be going after all. From the corner of his eye he saw that Galadhon and Alagos shot each other a sharp glance.

'Legolas is going with me?' Alagos asked and Legolas tried not to be offended at the look of horror on his face.

'And Galadhon.' It was Thalos who spoke now and all eyes turned to him. 'We need to be sure that Mithrandir knows what happened and we cannot risk our messages going awry.' Legolas glanced at Laersul whose face was smooth and showed nothing, so he wondered if Laersul too had been part of the discussion.

'Legolas and I will make sure the goblins don't get you, Alagos,' said Galadhon and grinned at Legolas. Alagos bristled.

'Legolas is quite capable of guarding Alagos as well,' Thranduil agreed smoothly. 'However he is going as the witness to the Orcs raid on us and Gollum's escape. Alagos, you are the King's messenger as always. You will give the messages, letters, greetings and Legolas will tell the tale of our hardship and endurance against the Shadow.' And if Thranduil was anxious at the idea, he tried hard not to show it. 'Galadhon, you will also be able to tell them about the search for Gollum.'

He looked around at the assembled Elves and then finally let his gaze settle on the outspread map. 'It is a long and dangerous journey,' he said softly. 'You must all study the route carefully for any one of you may fall. The last time you travelled it, Alagos, you reported that Goblin Town was abandoned after the Battle of Erebor. Since the Shadow has grown once again in the Wood, goblins have crept back into the Mountains and the road is no longer safe. I would rather we did not have to make this journey at all but my heart tells me it must be done and done swiftly. May the Valar keep you safe.' He looked at Legolas then. 'And hurry back to me.'

After Alagos and Galadhon had gone and only the sons of Thranduil were left, they were quiet together and spoke in soft voices of the journey. Then quietly Thalos and Laersul withdrew, and as Legolas too rose to leave Thranduil put his hand on Legolas' arm. Thalos smiled at him sadly and Laersul paused for a moment and then leaned over and kissed the top of Legolas' head.

'Be safe, little brother.'

At that, Thalos turned as if the moment weighed upon him but it was not Legolas he stared at but Laersul, and his eyes were wide with fear.

Laersul though was unaware, and Thalos followed Laersul quickly and was reaching out to him as they stepped through the door. For a moment Legolas felt a sudden urge to run after them and pull Laersul back, as if it were the last time he would see him. He shook himself. Surely it was merely the sense of danger that affected them so? He looked at his father but he had turned away, so Legolas let the thought drift away.

There was only Thranduil now and Legolas. Legolas was about to bid his father goodnight for he did not know if there was more his father wished to say to him. Smoke spiraled thinly from the candles and Thranduil lifted his hands to his own neck and took something from it. He approached Legolas now and lifted his chin like he was still a child.

'I want you to wear this, Legolas.' He pressed something small and hard into his palm and Legolas looked down.

A thin mithril chain looped over his fingers and a tiny oak leaf pendant, beautifully wrought in gold was strung upon it. Legolas' lips parted as he looked down. It was always worn around Thranduil's neck, closest to his skin, closest to his heart.

'You know then that I am always with you. And I am always proud of you...' He swallowed as if he could not speak the next words easily. 'Your mother would be as well. She is always with you too.'

Legolas felt overwhelmed and suddenly it did not matter how old he was; he threw his arms about his father and was pulled close.

'Come back to me, Legolas. Swiftly and safe.'

0o00

7th October

It was before daybreak that they set off. The stars were just thinning in the sky and their breath smoked in the cold air. Legolas was nervous and excited, wanting to be off so there was no more waiting around. He had not slept much the night before, for both Thalos and Laersul had come to his flet to bid him farewell. He had still been packing and repacking his kit with nervous excitement when Galion had arrived and told him he was worse than a maid before a feast. Galion had taken over and sent Legolas off to restring his bow and load his quiver. But this was different from the usual preparations for a journey. This was exciting; no grim Tower awaited him as it would in the South. Instead he was going to Imladris, a place of legends. He imagined himself walking up the slender spiraling paths and over delicate bridges that crisscrossed waterfalls and rivers...casually bumping into Glorfindel, or the Sons of Elrond.

He laughed at himself, he was like some novice warrior or love-struck maid. But he did hope to meet those heroes and the great Elf-lords whose names were sung in ballads.

When Galion called him to tell him that Alagos and Galadhon were ready, he led his dapple-grey mare, Gwilileth the Tenth, out into the cold morning. She caught his excitement and danced and threw her head up, nostrils flaring and ears pricked. Legolas thought he must look the same and tried to settle himself as well as his horse. Alagos was already mounted and waiting serenely as if he were going for a stroll but Galadhon looked as wide-eyed and excited as Legolas. His family did not attend and nor did Legolas' for all had said their farewells and it was only the three of them...and Galion, who wished to annoy Alagos.

'Make sure Alagos does not fall off,' he said to Galadhon and Legolas as they mounted. Alagos glared at Galion.

'I have never fallen off!' he declared irritably.

'That is not what your wife says,' Galion shot back ignoring Alagos' protests.

'Come Alagos! Ignore him,' Legolas said, pushing Gwilileth between them before they came to blows. 'Galion, leave him be.' He leaned down and said to Galion, 'Please. I have to ride with him and you will antagonize him before we have even left.'

Galion's green eyes gleamed and he said, 'I warn you, Legolas, he is the most arrogant and self-important Elf I have ever met. And I have met a few! I am merely putting him in his place for you.'

'Thank you but I think I can do that myself if I need to. I have learned from a master.' He reached down and clasped Galion's shoulder. 'Look after them for me, Galion. I know it is only a few weeks but...it feels like more stretches ahead of me.'

'We will all be here waiting for you,' Galion patted his hand reassuringly. 'Just make sure you do everything you need to and bring honour upon the House of Oropher as you always do.' His smile was heartfelt and trusting and then he added, 'Don't go to any councils though, or make any treaties or negotiations and whatever you do, don't prick* Elrond.'

Legolas heard Alagos' gasp in horror at Galion's parting shot but he straightened and turned Gwilileth and rode quickly out of the courtyard. He did not look back.

0o0o0

They made good progress through the Wood and onto the plains of Rhovanion. In the far distance Legolas saw the long silver ribbon that was the River Celebrant winding its way over the meadows and marshes of the foothills of the Hithaeglir. When he saw the distant hills, Legolas asked Galadhon excitedly if those were the Hithaeglir. Galadhon smiled kindly and told him those were merely the foothills and Alagos snorted derisively.

'There, look up. You can see just in between the clouds the shoulders of the Hithaeglir,' he said and Legolas had to gasp when he saw the high jagged teeth that soared up and up and even then he could not see the peaks but just had an impression of the impossible heights. Alagos seemed satisfied with Legolas' reaction and Legolas had to admit that he viewed Alagos with a little more respect, knowing that he had crossed these mountains many times and on his own. But it didn't last long.

The King's Messenger, as he styled himself pompously, made good use of the seven days travelling through the forest and over the plains of Rhovanion to tell Galadhon and Legolas all the things they could and could not do in Imladris. And Legolas found himself thinking that rarely had Galion been so completely right about another Elf as he was about Alagos. He was so full of his own importance that he and Galadhon had to work hard not to roll their eyes or tease him by telling him they would be doing exactly the opposite of what he advised.

No wonder Oropher wanted to escape the Noldor, Legolas thought. He and Galadhon could hardly believe some of the things Alagos told them but he remembered a book in the library called "The Laws and Customs of the Elves.' It was a Noldor book and he and Anglach had sniggered and giggled over it when they were children...It hurt to think upon that now.

When Legolas told Galadhon that Alagos merely spoke of what was in the book, Galadhon could not believe it and he and Legolas had a fine time teasing Alagos with plans to upset the stuffy Noldor and seduce all their maids and men. But for Legolas it was half-hearted for he thought now of Anglach. He recalled too that Anglach had dreamed of going to Imladris and meeting Glorfindel and he resolved that he would find Glorfindel and make sure he knew at least that Anglach had existed, that he had admired Glorfindel, for what young Elf of the Wood did not? And he should know that Anglach had also lost his life defending his people, just like Glorfindel. And that the enemy was still the enemy whether a demon of shadow and flame or just plain nasty orcs. It didn't matter how great the enemy if you laid down your life to save others, Legolas mentally told an imagined Glorfindel with whom he was dreaming of strolling casually down some leafy path in Imladris... And of course the glorious legendary warrior was captivated by the strange Elf in green and brown from the Wood, thought Legolas dreamily... He planned how he might upset the Laws and Customs in the most satisfying way for all concerned...

The journey was so uneventful as to be almost dull. The company was strained and Galadhon and Alagos at times almost snarled at each other. Legolas most often was the peacemaker and stood between them at least once. At least whilst they were riding they could string out and give each other space, but once at the Old Ford they turned the horses loose to forage and run free until their return. Then began the climb into the Hithaeglir and the thin trail that wound up and up, twisting steeply between the trees and rocks, arduous and relentless.

Now that they had begun the trail into the Mountains, Alagos became quieter and more tense, and finally Galadhon ceased his relentless teasing and Alagos his relentless pomposity. Galadhon was the best tracker amongst them but Alagos knew the way and now they were forced to work together, Legolas was amused to see how well they got on in fact. The way-stones were not reliable and Alagos warned them that goblins moved them about or laid false trails to lure unwary travellers to their death.

By the end of the first day of the climb, and the first week of their journey, the moon was a thin crescent, but the moonlight was too thin for even the elves to continue their journey at night and they found a flat shelf of granite slightly above the path and a useful overhang gave a little shelter. But the night was calm and young pine saplings grew in the thin soil between the rocks.

'We will camp here,' said Alagos, but he would not let Galadhon light a fire and they only ate lembas and what Legolas foraged amongst the junipers and whortleberries. Whilst they ate, Alagos insisted again that each one of them study the map and memorize the trail. 'As the King said,' he intoned soberly and Galadhon and Legolas rolled their eyes at each other. 'You never know what might befall any or each of us. And it betides us well to prepare for all events.'

'He didn't say that,' Galadhon interrupted. 'He said, it's always a good idea for more than one of you to know the way...And anyway, it is a long time since this map was made and we all know that the land changes and paths with it. There is nothing to say this road even exists anymore.'

'I will take the first watch if you like,' Legolas intervened before it came to blows and his companions settled down, bickering quietly until they both fell asleep and Legolas was alone under the stars and the immense sky.

o0o0o

Galadhon had taken over the watch and Legolas was dreaming of leaping over bonfires, and tumbling amongst the soft maidens but the smoke from the bonfire was suddenly roaring over him and smoke filled the air, choking him. There was a shout and he awoke suddenly, hands scrabbling to find his knives, his bow but he could not move, pinned down, he thought panicked and struggling. Something must have fallen on him for there was crushing pain and the roar was not a fire but rock, boulders pounding about them and the air was full of dust and noise. He tried to shout for Galadhon but found his throat full of dust and the land was sliding and crumbling around them; he felt himself tilt and roll and slide uncontrollably, and his fingers grappled uselessly in the grit and hard rock and then suddenly his back hit something hard and all the air was knocked out him. Small stones and rubble and grit piled on top of him, crushed him, rolled over his legs and arms and shoulders and he tried to free his hands to protect his head but the rocks slid and poured and buried him...and suddenly stopped.

He shook his head and punched his arms free, thrusting away the gravel and small stones so he could breath but his lungs filled with dust. Coughing, he blinked and shook his head again. The air was white with dust and he narrowed his eyes against it and pulled himself out, slowly, easing his arms, then his torso and finally his legs, free.

'Galadhon!' he tried to cry out but dust filled his mouth and he coughed instead. He dragged himself out of the rubble and crawled over the rocks, coughing and bruised and with his eyes closed to stop the dust from getting into them. The overhang beneath which they had sheltered, had collapsed and taken the shelf with it. The pine sapling had been torn up and its thin little branches showed darkly against the white dust and rockfall. Incredibly, his bow was undamaged and his knives still safely stowed in their harness.

He heard a moan then and scrambled over the rockfall towards the sound only to find Galadhon already there and sound, and lifting rocks carefully from where Alagos lay, his legs still half buried.

'Legolas! I am so relieved to see you. I could not find you, I could not even hear your song.'

Legolas blinked; had he blacked out? He had not realised it, but he reassured Galadhon and helped him lift each rock carefully from their companion. It was hard work for his limbs felt heavy and bruised but they dared not stop for even a moment for now the mountains were silent and dark. Goblins were likely close to the path, even though they were not high up yet and had not entered the High Pass.

With two of them, it was quick work even though both were bruised, Legolas perhaps more than Galadhon. But soon they were able to lift Alagos carefully from the rubble. Thranduil had said the mountains were treacherous, thought Legolas glumly looking down at Alagos' pale, pain-filled face.

'His leg is broken,' Galadhon was squatting beside Alagos and looking at the twisted limb. 'He won't be able to walk and I cannot see us carrying him over the mountains.' Galadhon looked up the track that wound steeply upwards winding between the great crags and granite boulders. 'We will have to go back.'

'I do not see that we have a choice,' Legolas said uncertainly. But as he spoke, he felt a slight tremble in his heart and he thought of Thranduil's sudden urgency that they should get to Imladris. Until now he had not caught it, but something tugged him.

'Go on...' Alagos ground out between gritted teeth. 'Find me somewhere and go on. I will be mended by the time you return.'

Galadhon made a noise, 'You will mended by a gang of goblins and we will find a pile of bones and goblins dancing about throwing your skull around.'

Legolas winced but the image was not far from the ones in his own mind. Now looking down at Alagos face, white and clenched in pain, he found himself in an absolute dilemma. They could not leave him here, clearly; Galadhon was right. Goblins would find him quick as lightning and when they returned, they would indeed find only his bones. But the thought of trailing all the way back down the mountains, retracing their same steps back to the Wood and the King, was more than he could bear, not simply because of the failure, or the prospect of having this task taken from him, but because something compelled him onwards, drew him with urgency.

High above an eagle called, as if too urging him on. It suddenly folded its wings and plummeted downwards, only to hit a current of warm air, soaring upwards again as if wanting him to follow... He found himself caught by the gleam of its wings, golden in the sunlight.

Galadhon looked up from where he knelt beside Alagos. 'There is nothing we can use as a splint or litter,' he frowned. 'We will have to carry him, perhaps our cloaks can make a sort of sling.' He stood up then and unfastened his cloak and Legolas immediately did the same. 'The nearest place is Beorn's. It is downhill I suppose and perhaps we can make that in a few days if the going is good...although with your great lumping weight, Alagos, it may take us as long as a week.'

Alagos merely groaned, loudly although Legolas thought he was making more of it than strictly necessary. 'A week, and then another week at least for me to mend before we can return here. We will be delayed by a month or more! What will the King say?'

'The King will say that you are a great oaf for being so clumsy and not leaping out of the way when I told you,' scolded Galadhon but he sounded worried too.

Legolas looked behind him, the way they had come up the trail. Already they had travelled two full days and were a good way up into the mountains. Returning would seriously delay them.

'The King was most insistent that we reach Imladris quickly. The Nine are abroad and searching,' Alagos moaned and Legolas chewed his lip for Alagos was right. 'Mithrandir needs to know. He needs to know too of Gollum's escape or the King would never have sent you, Legolas.' Alagos pushed himself up onto one elbow and clawed at Legolas' leg.

Legolas looked down at Alagos with smothered irritation and tried discreetly to pull away.

'You must go on, Legolas. You must take the message. It is more important than me!' Alagos added dramatically.

Legolas finally succeeded in pushing him off gently but exchanged a glance with Galadhon. 'He is right,' he sighed. 'I will help you take Alagos back down the mountain. But Thranduil did charge us with delivering this and I will have to go on.'

'We have to be swift' Galadhon nodded and Legolas was surprised at how quickly he agreed that they would continue and not return to Thranduil's halls. 'There is something that urges me too,' Galadhon said. 'But I do not intend to leave you to travel on your own, Legolas. Not only Thranduil, but Thalos, and Laersul would kill me. And Galion would have me on a spit. So we will take Alagos to Beorn, or leave him somewhere where only the wolves can eat him and not goblins. He will only make them sick and then they will be angry when we return. The horses will not be far and I will come with you then.'

Legolas did not answer for his heart urged him onwards and he resented the delay they would face even with him helping Alagos back down the mountain. With Alagos injured it might take up to seven days. He unclasped his cloak and tied the corners to Galadhon's. They carefully lifted Alagos onto it and each picked up two corners.

At the end of the third full day of carrying a moaning, suffering Alagos, they were almost at the foothills of the mountains and the long river gleamed in the sunlight and Legolas suddenly realised they had not seen the sun for days until now, all the time they had been in the mountains. The air was easier and warmer, insects buzzed softly on the late Autumn sunshine and the tall grass waved in a light breeze from the south. But instead of the relief he thought he would feel, Legolas had felt a rising sense of anxiety with every step that took him down the path back and now he felt the Song...it was discordant and had been growing more so with every step. It had taken so long to retrace their steps for Alagos had truly been in pain and they had stopped often to give him respite.

Both he and Galadhon paused and found themselves looking at each other in understanding and even Alagos was quiet.

'You feel it too?' he asked, knowing that Galadhon was sensitive to the Song, had always been when they were in the South of the Wood, or when Orcs were nearby.

'Suddenly. But it has grown upon you these last two days?' Galadhon peered at Legolas strangely. 'I wonder why you have felt it more strongly.'

For that Legolas had no answer but he turned and looked back up the trail that twisted its way back up into the Mountains. 'I do not know...just that I feel...I must go on.'

Galadhon nodded and put his hand on Legolas' shoulder. 'It is a long journey before we reach Beorn even with the horses and Alagos riding...' He paused and looked at Legolas with concern. 'It is dangerous. Be careful. You know there are goblins up there and worse.'

'And you could get lost,' added Alagos for good measure. 'There are ice giants up there too and when the storms strike they come out of nowhere and there can be trolls and...'

'I will miss your cheerfulness,' interrupted Legolas. 'But how will you manage Alagos?' he asked Galadhon, who grinned above Alagos' head so he did not see.

'Badly I fear. He will get bumped and bruised and I will probably drop him on his head, not that that will matter greatly. But if I can carry him at least to the Old Ford, the horses may yet linger. Then we can go to Beorn and I will send messages to the King that because of Alagos' careless blunder, his youngest and stupidest has travelled over the mountains on his own. He will kill Alagos of course and if he catches up with me he may merely flay alive slowly and rub salt onto my bleeding sores. I, of course, will be following you as soon as I may.'

Both Alagos and Legolas protested then, Legolas because he didn't like being referred to as the youngest and certainly not the stupidest. 'How old do I have to be before that couple of hundred years stops being relevant?' he demanded.

Alagos was moaning quietly under his breath, 'He will kill me, he will kill me.'

But Galadhon ignored both of them and reached into Alagos' tunic and pulled out the map.

'You will need this,' he said unrolling it and holding it open. 'Are you sure about the way? Are you sure you cannot wait a few more days?'

'It will not be a few more days though, will it?' Legolas said grimly. 'It has taken us three days to get back here, and to return to the place where we were is another two or one perhaps with fair weather - that's four days at least even now. Another day or two to the Old Ford if we are carrying Alagos, and then we have yet to find somewhere to leave him...' He did not finish. They all knew what he had to do and none of them felt easy about it.

'I will follow you,' said Galadhon, 'when I rid myself of this burden.'

'No. It would only place you in danger when there needs to be only one of us.' Legolas suddenly found he could not bear the idea of Galadhon following him alone. It made him think of Naurion and he could not bear it if Galadhon was lost in trying to protect or help him. 'Please. Promise me you will not. By the time you get back here I hope to be in Imladris and I will return with the next train or group of travellers. There may well by Dwarves going to Erebor.' He did not relish the idea of travelling with Dwarves but if it would ease Galadhon, he would.

Galadhon ran his hands over his hair in anxiety. 'I cannot just let you go, Legolas. Thalos would never forgive me and I would not forgive myself.'

'And he would not forgive me if you were lost and I would not forgive myself either. Galadhon, please. I feel...somehow it needs to be me. There is something waiting for me on the other side of the Mountains.' He met Galadhon's anxious eyes and leaned slightly towards him. 'I know you feel this is right,' he said. 'And I feel there is great need to hurry, as if I will miss something important otherwise.'

Suddenly Galadhon dropped his gaze and shifted. 'Thalos said that too,' he murmured.

Legolas went still. 'Thalos said that?'

'Yes.' Galadhon looked at him again. 'He said that it was your destiny. He told your father.'

Legolas smiled slightly. It reassured him, for surely if it were his destiny there was someone looking after him and would make sure he arrived sound and with his skin whole. 'I am going,' he said more decisively. 'Tell Thalos thank you. And my father - tell him not to kill either of you. I have become used to you.' He leaned down and patted Alagos on the shoulder. 'Even you, Alagos,' he said kindly.

'Be careful, Legolas. I have become fond of you too,' said Alagos. 'But everything they say about you is true.'

Legolas snorted with laughter then. 'I did not seduce you,' he said looking down at him sideways and lifting an eyebrow slightly. 'So it is not all true.'

'No,' Alagos smiled 'It is not all true. But you are a true Woodelf.' And he said it as a compliment so Legolas smiled.

'Are you two finished?' Galadhon said with mock petulance,' or shall I withdraw to give you privacy?' Then he pulled Legolas into a hug and said quietly, 'Be safe, Legolas. Thranduil will have my hide but Thalos' heart will break if anything happens to you.'

'Nothing will happen,' Legolas said with a certainty that seemed to come from outside him. He looked up at the sky for an eagle called high, high above in the cold blue sky. 'Look! The Eagles will watch over me.'

'Even better if they came and let you climb upon their back and flew you there!' Galadhon replied.

He left them resting carefully on a flat topped rise that he had scouted carefully before he left. They would take their time now and Galadhon would be able to ease Alagos down to the flat lands below. Legolas took one last look before he left.

'Don't forget,' Alagos called after him, 'Don't do anything but give the message. Don't enter into any negotiations, don't go to any council...'

Legolas did not look back but waved his hand dismissively.

'Don't seduce any Imladrian warriors,' Galadhon called merrily, 'And don't proposition the Evenstar. Or Elrond!' he called after him. 'But if Glorfindel is there, do everything you can to get him into your bed! And remember every detail to tell me when you come back...'

'Don't forget to bow to Elrond and Erestor. And demand a room worthy of your station...' Alagos was still calling to him when he took one last look and waved.

Their voices trailed away and melted into the silence of the mountains and Legolas was on his own in the Misty Mountains.

0o0o

tbc

*prick - Galion uses this as a Silvan slang. He would have used the word to imply pricking with a sharp point, to stab, and by extension to treat with scorn or insult. (Hiswelókë Sindarin Dictionary.)


	5. The High Pass

Beta: Wonderful Anarithilien.

Chapter 5: The High Pass

19th October

Legolas left Alagos and Galadhon already bickering and quickly followed the path back up the way they had come, recognising small details, a boulder in the middle of the path, a sapling, a stream that rushed across the path, washing away the gravel and grit and leaving smooth stone beneath.

He climbed up and up, and up, winding his way between rocks and over mountain meadows full of long grass that waved, over lush green bogs and marshes that would swallow a man whole, and along grey streams that fled downwards over the grey stones as if they feared something high up in the Hithaeglir. He pulled his cloak about him, and even if he did not really feel the cold, he was glad now of its comfort; it smelt of home, and Alagos and Galadhon had insisted he take his and not leave it for a litter for Alagos.

Now and again he paused and stared up at the bleak crags that rose above him; high and jagged they were. He had not yet seen their peaks for they were always hidden by great shrouds of mist and cloud. And as if it had perceived his thought, the cloud suddenly, briefly drew aside and he saw sharp horns reaching higher than he had ever imagined, could even have dreamed. Snow gleamed on the peaks, pristine and pure as the days of Cuivënen. His breath seemed suddenly short and the mist drifted slowly back over the heights, and the mountains were hidden again. He recalled the tales Laersul had told him, that the Towers of Mist upon the borders of Eriador were even taller and more terrible in the first Age, and were reared by Melkor to hinder the riding of Oromë. He found himself believing it.

He paused for a moment and feeling a sudden sense of unease and panic, pulled the scrolled map from where he had thrust it inside his tunic when he took his leave of Galadhon and Alagos. It made him feel better just unrolling it and assuring himself that he was on the narrow path for the way-stones were intermittent.

At least he would not be there when Thranduil heard the news of Alagos' injury, he thought glumly, imagining his father's rage and disappointment, his worry.

Late, when the sun was high but cool enough that walking was not unbearable, he heard a rush of water ahead of him and thought that at least after the Summer the river would not be high. There was no river marked on the map but it was many years ago that anyone had crossed the mountains from the Wood and he supposed it could be from melt-water from the snow.

He came to it quite suddenly and stopped.

A bear stood in the river on its four legs, muzzle dripping with water from where it had lifted its head from the river and its small brown eyes regarded Legolas. Its thick fur was deep and rich brown from a Summer of fish and sunshine and it yawned showing sharp white teeth.

Then it turned, the water pouring from its long fur as it heaved itself up on its strong legs out of the river and ambled away into the brush.

He let go the breath he had not realised he had been holding and relaxed his hands on his bow. He supposed the bear was well fed and did not need to bother to chase him as its prey. He was grateful to Yavanna for that. And if that was the worst thing he met on this journey he would be glad.

After that the trail become even higher, steeper, grew harder and the air was as thin as the soil; he found himself short of breath and moved more slowly. But it was not just the thin air that caused this, he felt a malevolence in the ponderous and clinging air, that drew him back while his heart drew him onwards. The Mountains were hostile, an overwhelming presence. Steep grey cliffs towered on either side and their peaks disappeared into the mist and cloud that seemed permanently to shroud the sky. And the wind blew, whined through the passes and between the great cliffs, tore at him, pulling his long hair and cloak spitefully. But it was worse when the wind dropped, the brooding, resentful silence was oppressive and now and again, a small clatter of rocks from the cliffs above would break the absolute quiet. Each time he felt his heart pound hard in his chest, and he scrambled down scree slopes or hid between boulders and stood absolutely still in the shadows, until he was certain nothing followed him, or tracked him.

He passed a ring of blackened stones, an old campfire, and a pile of bleached bones nearby. They were not animal bones.

After that he did not sleep, not even the half-waking dreams as he walked, and only stopped briefly when it was too dark to walk. Night time was the worst, when he sat without fire or light and listened to the unearthly noises of the mountains, strange sounds in the night, echoing around the rocks and as the utter darkness closed over him he imagined how the great grey cliffs towered above him. He dared not sing, not murmur to himself just to hear a voice. There was only the wind and when that at last dropped, the awful, immense, brooding silence.

One morning as daylight crept over the Mountains, eagles cried, wheeling in the grey sky above him, and swooping above Legolas first and then soared ahead. One dropped between two great mountain peaks ahead of him and then re-emerged, wheeled and then soared between the great mountains again...Legolas squinted after the eagle, remembering the tales of Oropher's passing over the Hithaeglir and how he had been aided by the great eagles. Suddenly he felt less alone and followed in its direction.

It seemed he was right to follow for at last he reached the start of the high Northern Pass; a narrow trail threaded its way between the snowy shoulders of two great mountain peaks, their grey cliffs towered above him, immense, their tops shrouded in mist and cloud. It would take him two marches, he thought, to cross the Pass, and with luck he would be on his descent by nightfall the following day. Still too slow, he knew.

Following the narrow trail that almost disappeared in places, he had to scramble over great boulders that blocked the way or cross bare rock and scree that slid beneath his feet treacherously. Whenever even his light feet made a sound or let fall a small clatter of rocks, he felt the Mountains' attention somehow focus and that malevolence intensified, was brought to bear upon him in the resentful silence. Even the air was thin and starved and cold. Behind him in the East the sky was dark grey and tinted yellow; he could smell snow on the wind and the air was blizzard-heavy.

He opened up the map again and searched it, but he knew the trail so carefully marked had long gone, as Galadhon had said, the road disappeared beneath rockslides and melt-water, and eroded by the wind and ice that ground down rock, tore stone. And the presence of the white way-stones, he realised now, merely meant there were goblins. A bitter wind swirled amongst the rocks.

By nightfall he had climbed steeply far into the Pass, and the narrow path had become but a wide ledge and wound beneath a sheer cliff to the left and plunged away into a precipitous ravine to his right. He felt a cold softness on his hair, his face and looked up. Snow.

It began slowly but soon was falling fast, great snowflakes filled the air, swirling and falling in soft silence and he had to stop, to take shelter, such as it was, between two granite boulders. Through the night the snow fell faster and heavier and he huddled in his cloak and listened to the wind which seemed almost a voice itself, howling and whining like a great invisible beast. Even in the morning it did not cease and he could hardly make out the dark shapes of rocks ahead of him, could hardly see the path and knew he could slip all too easily into the ravine below. He pulled his cloak about him more tightly, hoping that if he could not see, no goblin could either.

The path narrowed and he wondered how Bilbo and the Dwarves had managed with ponies for he did not think any pony could have traversed this narrow ledge, skimmed with thin ice in this storm, and with snow banked up against the cliff. A boulder lay on its side across the path, had obviously fallen from the cliffs above and crashed upon the narrow path making it impassable. He looked up nervously for the cliffs were pocked with caves and holes in the cliffs above the path and he thought how easy it would be to pick him off, but for the driving snow.

It was easy for an Elf to scramble over the boulder. As he did so, he turned his head to see that behind the boulder was a low arch in the cliff face, a cave. It was dry and although he had to dip his head, it was out of the wind and snow. He peered around it carefully; it had a dry floor where he could sleep if he were fool enough. There was something not right; a lingering smell, like lightning had struck though it could not have. It reminded him of Gandalf. At the back of the cave was a crack in one of the walls like something hot had shattered it. A flint from a tinderbox lay abandoned on the floor. Slowly he stopped and picked it up. Dwarvish, he thought. It had a rune etched onto its smooth surface, T binding together the shield and oak design. He stared at it and then replaced it carefully on the floor. He stood just within the opening of the cave and did not light a fire, did not take off his cloak and shake it out, did not move to the back of the cave out of the snow. He stood just within the opening and stared out at the snow, the hairs on his neck lifted and listening intently for any sounds that came from within.

The blizzard eased slightly and he cast a look back over his shoulder at the crack in the wall. Surely it had widened since last he looked? He tilted his head to one side and listened...as if it read his intent, the blizzard outside intensified, roared through along cliff face. It seemed there was a fell voice on the air, like the Mountains themselves had given voice to their malice. Nervously, he strung his bow and drew two arrows from his quiver which he held lightly against the string. At that moment, he heard a loud crack and he looked over his shoulder; the stone had indeed cracked open and dark shapes poured and shifted within. Goblins.

Instantly he leapt out into the snow, cast a quick glance along the ledge. Deciding that at least the snow would give him cover and what choice did he have, he darted swiftly along the narrow path, digging his toes hard into the snow to give him footholds, gripping his bow in one hand and trailing the other hand along the cliff to steady himself against the furious wind. Voices like the crack of whips shouted and yelled and he turned and loosed arrows quickly into the snow and did not stop to see if they found their target.

Only when he skidded suddenly on ice and loose stones which skittered down over the rough path, bouncing over the steep edge that dropped away for hundreds and hundreds of feet, did he pause. Too fast and he would slip again, and even Elves can fall. He peered over his shoulder but all he could see was the swirling snow caught in the tearing wind. It lay thickly on his hair, his cloak and even on his eyelashes. He could not hear anything but the wind and Goblins are heavy on their feet.

Blinking he edged along the path, snow coming at him from every side until he was blind and could not see where his feet should go. He inched forwards for he could not go back, and clung to the icy rock. Before long the snow was drifting against the rock-face and even his light feet sank a little, but it formed long slopes and he began to dig his feet harder into the snow to give him footholds. The wind caught his cloak and hair and pulled at him violently so he had to stop completely at times and swayed tenuously, clinging to the snow toeholds, his fingers clutching at fissures in the rock.

It seemed he had been travelling for hours against the ferocious blizzard and he barely noticed when the narrow ledge abruptly widened and took him into a wide valley between two cols. He still clung to the cliff and only when it gradually smoothed and sloped away did he realise he had come through the High Pass and was on the other side of the Hithaeglir. It had been many miles along the ledge, but on any normal day it would have taken him no time and troubled him not at all, but the wind and snow had battled against him furiously.

As he emerged into the valley, the blizzard stopped quite suddenly and the wind dropped so all was suddenly eerily silent and snow-covered. He stopped in the cover of the rocks and peered out over the snow. The goblins may well have underground tunnels and even now be lying in wait for him; they would know he had to come out here. Caves overlooked the path and he looked up, around, stretching out his senses, listening hard. Moving quickly, silently, he skimmed lightly over the snow, leaving barely an imprint. He knew his cloak would reflect light and make him difficult to see, but he kept his bow strung and arrows in his fist.

Then in the distance behind him, he heard a ring of steel. Legolas froze, letting himself merge almost unconsciously into the landscape. He crouched between some grey granite rocks and listened...the draw of a blade from its sheath perhaps? He tilted his head to one side and listened...stilled his own heartbeat and the thump of his blood in his veins, let the sounds of the world fall away, expecting to hear the cracked, hard voices and the scattering, running feet of the mountain goblins, their dischord in the Song...Instead, a different sound, a steady rhythm of heavy feet, the beat of steadfast hearts that were jealous and proud and loyal...the echo of caverns deep and veins of gold, the rhythm of the hammer on molten steel and iron...There was the deep song of Stone, the mountains resonated just as the Wood resonated with the presence of the Elves.

Slowly he came back to awareness.

Dwarves then. Only Dwarves would make the stone sing so, he guessed, even the Hithaeglir which had no love for Dwarves or Elves, he thought. Far back, behind him on the track...lower than the track he was on, he thought. So he rose to his feet and gazed about him. The Dwarves must still be quite far behind him. He wondered if they were also making their way to Imladris...He did not think of going back to join them.

0o0o0

The descent seemed as slow as the ascent but the snow had stopped falling now and only a light coat lay on everything. The bitter wind seemed content to have seen him off the cold slopes. Ahead of him a cold, clear stream rushed downwards between junipers and whortleberries that grew in the thin hard soil; the slopes above were no longer bare rock and loose scree, but were covered with heather and tough scrubby grass dusted with snow. Lichens grew on the grey granite stones. He stooped to fill his water-skin from the stream and felt the grey pebbles smooth under his fingers and the water cold as melt-water. He sipped at it, tasting it pure on his tongue but bitingly cold and pulled out one of the last cakes of lembas. He was sick of lembas. The warriors of the Wood told tales that in Lothlorien the Lady and her maidens made the lembas for the Marchwardens. In the Wood, they said, it was made by Galion and his henchmen.

He glanced up at the grey clouds that seemed to be swelling and lying heavily across the mountains. They did not seem to be getting closer and he hoped the Hithaeglir had been content with the blizzard it had thrown at him in the days before. He wondered where the Dwarves were and looked back along the mountain trail, almost expecting to see them emerge from the narrow pass. He could no longer hear them however and he wondered if they had become lost or waylaid...and for a moment he thought he should go back.

Something yelped somewhere above him on the stony screes slopes and he turned to look. Marmots scattered and rushed to their holes and suddenly the shadows lengthened and silence fell absolutely.

He froze, fingertips prickling. He rubbed his fingers together and the cold grew, and the darkness rolled upwards from the hair of his scalp froze, his blood chilled and he stopped suddenly, eyes wide and staring.

Surely not here?

It was unmistakable to any who had grown up in the Forest or spent time patrolling the South.

Nazgûl.

He turned and fled.

Throat suddenly dry, heart racing with fear, nerves jangling and feet flying over the stony path, back up the way he had come. Suddenly he veered away from the path and flung himself over boulders and the low growing junipers and heathers, a chamois leapt alongside him for a moment and then veered away. The rocky cliff face loomed suddenly before him and he had nowhere to go but up and he could not be found exposed on the sheer cliff face. He flung himself down on the frozen ground, in the scrubby whortleberries and heather and pressed his face against the snow. He could only hear his own panting thundering heart and the cold grew, tendrils of fear creeping towards him, reaching, sniffing the air as a hound.

The world was suddenly dark and all sound ceased. He squeezed his eyes shut and drowned out all thoughts, pressed down his terror, stilled his wildly pounding heart, willed his blood to stop banging through his veins for they would smell him...smell his fear...and he suffocated his Song...

Shadows seemed to reach for him. Cold air swept up from the valley and with it, a tinge of something else. Like a smell...like the emptiness of a tomb.

Intense cold, like the air had frozen, drifted over him and that familiar, inexplicable fear drove a spike through his heart. Like a blade.

He had a fleeting sense of something...

...a sad ghost wringing its hands over a short, squat body on the ground, a shadow beckoning, dragging the ghost towards it by the green-gold thread which it swiped away so it floated in little drifts upon the Dwarf on the ground...

It was enough to distract him, to let the terror pass him by and the Nazgul was gone.

But he lay there, pressed into the ground, waiting for the terror to leave his limbs...

He did not move, kept his heartbeat slow and quiet, and stilled his Song.

Long he lay there silent and unmoving until he was sure they had gone.

At last, there was rustling near his face and he saw a small mouse run past his nose. He heard the Song surge softly back and the small creatures of the mountain crept back. The marmot yelped up in the rocks somewhere and another yelped back. He let himself relax slightly and shifted. Slowly he raised his head to look about him; nothing. The high valley was empty and the Nazgûl had had been no horse and no following company of goblins or orcs...He slowly rose to his feet and stood still for what felt like ages, feeling, listening, stretching out his senses...

There was a spark of fire high up on the mountainside and far back along the path. He wondered if that was the Dwarves or goblins. He hesitated. No, he was better off on his own for he did not know if they might welcome him and he would have wasted time. So he began to trot back along the path, and he stretched his senses out, cast his sharpened gaze about himself and did not stop until he had descended from the alpine meadow and ahead of him the trail fell below the tree-line and he breathed with relief that he was again amongst the trees. Their green pine fragrance filled his lungs but there was a great unease in the forested slopes and he felt afraid. It had been so short a time since the Nazgûl had passed.

Legolas glanced down over the edge of the trail and down the steep wooded slopes below. He tilted his head to one side and listened...stretched out his senses. There was nothing but the forest's unease persisted. He looked behind him again up at the thin spiral of smoke high up on the mountainside and wondered again if he should join the Dwarves. Then he scrambled down the slopes and vanished into the trees, lightly trailing his hand over the tree trunks as he passed and listened carefully to the whisper of the wind in their high branches.

Great towers of cloud gathered, swelled and billowed like immense sails. Behind him a low rumble rolled up from the valleys and over the mountains behind him.

Just as night fell, the rain came, and the storm.

Thunderclouds rolled across the sky like enormous waves crashing against each other, and emptied themselves on the western slopes of the Misty Mountains. Lightning flashed down and bolts of molten silver threaded through the sky. At first Legolas turned his head up and let the water soak his face, stream down his hair and he breathed deeply of the scent of the rain and soaked earth. But it did not stop and soon the slopes turned to mud and water puddled in grey sheets across the path, poured from the sloped bank on one side in a brown rivulet, drenched the leaves and trees and grass, soaked through his cloak, his tunic, his boots so he thought he may as well run naked. Until at last he decided to stop beneath the pines whose branches meshed and the rain leaked through rather than ran in torrents. He crouched at the trunk of the tree and ate part of the last lembas wafer with relief for he thought he must be close to Imladris. He had heard the roads of Imladris could deceive unwary travellers or those whose hearts were not true and he wondered how the road knew.

As he ate his waybread and mused, he watched the rain. It did not stop and his clothes gradually dried for they were well made for travelling. Beneath the tree was dry still and he looked up into the wide, thickly woven branches with sudden fatigue. He was far enough away from the path to be unseen and close enough to hear if the Dwarves passed by. So he climbed the tree and found the wide branches forked and interlocked into a convenient nest that could have been made for the purpose and leaned back against the trunk of the tree whose needles whispered in the rain and he heard its slow deep song as it thrust its roots into the deep earth and drank deeply.

He did not mean to sleep, but merely rest...but he awoke suddenly with his fingertips prickling and the hair on his neck and spine stiff with fear. The air was suddenly chilled and he knew it was the Nazguûl.

He caught his breath. Surely it had not returned? Surely it did not hunt him? Why did it not pursue him earlier?

It seemed that frost hung in the air and all other sounds ceased but a rush of wind came up from the valley, howling, bitter as hunger. Legolas flattened himself against the tree and clung to its branches. His hair was torn back and he felt he was being dragged into the wind that howled through the trees, but its icy blast was no part of Nature. It smelled of empty tombs...

And was gone.

Gone. Vanished into the Mountains. He found his hands trembling slightly and he clutched at them. It is only fear, he reminded himself, as he had countless times in the South of the Wood.

0o0o0

When finally he could stand to return to the earth, he had decided that he would simply run as fast as he could to get off this wretched mountain and into the valleys. The Nazgûl had been uncloaked, unhorsed, and then a horrible thought struck him. What if Imladris had been lost, overrun by Shadow? After all it was long since Thranduil had had word from Elrond... He felt a dreadful pressure in his chest. To have journeyed all this way to find that the Shadow had won this side of the Mountains...

He shook himself. Fool. You are letting your fear run away with you, he scolded himself as he had many a novice in his time. Have you forgotten all those times in the South?

So he shouldered his quiver and bow and strode up the steep ferny bank through the grey rain and back onto the narrow path where he stood looking for a moment. It was eerily still and he looked back up the path that led over the High Pass and home... It seemed the air had shifted strangely, almost a clear walled tunnel and he recognised that strange dislocation and sense of disorientation that he had experienced in the South of the Forest.

He wondered how the Dwarves had fared but he had not seen or heard them for days now- had only seen the glimpse of fire and it may not have been Dwarves. He could do nothing either to warn them or help them, so he turned and headed down the mountain road that led to the First Homely House. But his boots squelched and his tunic was so muddy as to be unrecognizable and he wondered what in all of Arda Lord Elrond and Imladris would think... and then he remembered the passing of the Nazgûl and was afraid of what he might find instead.

oo0o0o0

Quite suddenly it seemed his narrow, overgrown path, such as it was, joined another, a broader, better maintained track and he stood for a moment in the rain, looking along it. Raindrops pattered on the gravel, puddled in well worn places. The track wound in wide, easy loops down the mountains and when he looked up, he saw that the wide loops continued upwards, twisting around a col and then appeared again through a gap in the rocks, and then vanished. White way-stones marked it clearly in both directions. It was an easy track to follow.

He pulled the map from inside his tunic and held it open, shielding it from the rain and then turned it round and looked up at the peaks above him and turned it again. Ah. Mentally he kicked himself- surely this track ahead of him was the right path and he had been travelling on some goat track? When did he go wrong? At least there were was no one to witness his stupidity. Youngest and stupidest, Galadhon's word echoed and he winced. It was not true and Galadhon had said it in jest but he thought neither Laersul nor Thalos would have made such an error. Shaking his head at himself, he turned and, pulling his cloak around him, walked through the driving rain down the gravel track.

There were many small rivers and streams cascading down the mountains and through thickly forested slopes of pine. He breathed in and luxuriated in the scents and smells of the forest after the bare mountain, the green pines, the thick, slowly- rotting carpet of needles. Even the relentless rain did not dim its beauty and the road was clearer, winding down the sloping forest, with its rocks and moss-covered boulders, alongside mountain streams of cold pure water. Raindrops pattered on the surface of pools, on the gravel track, on his cloak, splattered in the growing puddles on the road.

It would be beautiful, he thought, if he were not so drenched, so bedraggled and soaked, and covered in mud and anxious that goblins or orcs or Nazgûl lurked behind every rocky outcrop or perched on every high ridge above him. His boots squelched.

A river rushed ahead of him. Its white water was cloudy with mud and clay and there were great logs jammed against the banks, swept down by winter floods.

And then he felt something...like he had walked into something different, the air changed subtly, like it did when he entered his father's own realm and he knew he had passed into Imladris. He stepped off the track then and went a little way into the trees, paused beneath the great pine trees whose meshed branches gave some shelter from the rain and with great weariness, he let his bow fall and unslung his quiver, fell onto the lush grass and leaned against a tree trunk.

Just for a moment, he told himself for suddenly he was very weary.

He did not really rest even now for the remembrance of the Nazgûl flickered and trembled on the edge of his thoughts and he wondered if Imladris was safe. So after an hour's rest where he reluctantly ate the last biscuit of lembas, cursing Galion as he did, he made his way carefully down the ever widening path until it dropped quickly between the pine trees and he could see below him a valley. It lay between the high mountains on one side and on the other, softer, greener mountains that were foothills in comparison with the high soaring peaks of the Hithaeglir. It was green and lush and full of trees and waterfalls. The road was silver in the rain and wound quickly down into a wide valley.

It was then he caught his first glimpse of The First Homely House, as it was called by some but Thranduil always had a slight wry smile when he said this, ironic and amused. It was anything but. Towers and balconies and courtyards, all delicately perched against the cliff face like froth or lace, he thought. And unfairly, he thought, sunlight gleamed on the stone, so it looked warm like late Summer.

Legolas looked down at his filthy tunic, muddy boots and breeches. He was drenched. Still. And he was sure his face was muddy. He sighed and squelched onwards, and as he descended the rain eased to a light misting rain that was just enough to keep everything green and lush and pleasant. It kept him still nicely muddy and sodden.

0o0o0

Elrond sighed. The heaviness of Vilya on his finger weighed sometimes and he felt the winds and currents of the air, the coolness of the wind, and sometimes its fury which he reined in as it rushed over Imladris. It was now, filled with water and rain and he pushed it away easily with a thought, towards the mountains, where it rained and rained and drenched the earth, soaked through the leaves of the forest and sluiced the streams...washed away the cold smell and emptiness of the Nazgûl.

Then he turned back to the Wizard, who sat with a thoughtful, faraway expression on his face as if he were listening to the sound of approaching feet but still too far to quite hear, and Gandalf smiled.

0o0o0

Next; Imladris. Legolas meets the inhabitants of Imladris and some of them are not sure what to make of a Woodelf, and some of them have got some very definite ideas! Warning for the next chapter: slash.

Elrond, Elrohir, Glorfindel, Erestor, Gandalf, various Hobbits and OCs. I have looked forward to writing the next chapters!


	6. Imladris

Disclaimer: usual.

Beta: Lovely Anarithilen, who is always right!

Warnings for this chapter: slash. m/m

Chapter 5: Imladris

24th October (Day before the Council of Elrond)

Even over the heavy rain, Legolas could hear the sound of water growing louder the further he descended into the valley. He came over the last rise, and through the downpour he saw waterfalls amongst the pine trees, cascading into the rushing river. He thought it must be the Bruinen for it carved its way through the gorge. Everything was wet, water in the sky, the air, rushing through the valley. It did not cheer him or gladden his heart as it should. He too was wet. Soaked. Drenched. He may as well have cast himself in the river and swum the last few miles, he thought glumly.

There must have been a break in the clouds somewhere for there was a pool of sunshine on a south-facing cliff and there, like some delicate stone froth of filigree and lace with its elegant towers, spires and balconies, terraces and arches, was the House of Elrond; Imladris. The rain seemed to have been pushed away from it, and it did not seem real but floated on mists and clouds like a picture of a palace in a child's old book.

Legolas stood in the downpour, throughly soaked, his hair plastered to his head, cloak and tunic and breeches soaked through and stared at the spires and towers that soared elegantly upwards as if made of light, and there were long pennants streaming on a breeze. Balconies laced the facade of the House and graceful arches seemed draped delicately like silk rather than stone, over slender columns and elegant terraces.

With relief, he saw that the pennants that fluttered and streamed were of the star of Earendil.

Suddenly Legolas felt overwhelmed and intimidated. Surely the Elves would all be as elegant as the House, and tall and impossibly beautiful and noble? Glorfindel lived there, and Elrond Half-elven, and Arwen Undómiel, who was said to be the likeness of Luthien herself. And too, the Sons of Thunder, Elladan and Elrohir. Their deeds of errantry filled every young Woodelf's head with 'stuff and nonsense' as Belerian had said, the ancient and doughty sword-master who had no time for anyone who lived beyond the Wood.

Suddenly Legolas wished he could somehow delay his arrival. His message would be unwelcome, he thought, and he would be seen as he was, a mere Woodelf, untutored, unlettered and definitely less wise*. Had not Galion warned him of this? Had not Alagos told him of the strange ways of the Noldor? He was bound to do something to embarrass himself. Not for the first time, or the last, he wished Alagos and Galadhon were with him, or even better that Thalos or Laersul had been sent instead. He felt hot at the thought of all that might go wrong.

But it was too late to go back, or to stop now.

Through the rain, he thought he heard the rhythmic thud of heavy booted feet; an echo of Earth's song like a glimpse, or a gleam of forgotten gold...the chanting of deep voices in the cold dark of the mountains, deep below the sounds of the world, breath like the bellows of a forge.

He turned and peered through the rain but there was nothing; surely the Dwarves were still far up in the mountains? They could not possibly have caught up with him after the blizzard, or made their way so quickly along the narrow ledge? He could see nothing in this driving rain but grey fog, grey cliffs, grey mountains, rain, and higher up, snow.

He turned back towards sun-lit Imladris and trudged as Elves rarely do, and squelched as they never do, up the road where it wound suddenly steeply over the arching bridge which spanned the Bruinen that rushed, white-foamed, through the valley. The rain seemed determined to follow him for as he trudged towards Imladris itself, which had been, until now, standing in a pool of sunshine and he in a pool of water. Now the rain came and fell over Imladris, just enough to make everything shine and gleam and to keep Legolas soaked and wet.

He trudged upwards through a delicate stone archway that led to the courtyard that the light rain somehow made even more graceful and somehow sophisticated; there was a fountain that seemed even more elegant in the rain. The columns of the colonnaded porch were strong but slender enough to make you wonder how they kept the roof up, and ahead of him a great oak door beautifully carved with Elrond's sigil. The door was closed. Firmly. Even though he had been told by his father, by Alagos, by everyone that it always stood open. He tried the heavy iron handle. Turned it and pushed. Nothing. It would not budge he pushed harder and shook it a little. And could not open it. He pushed harder and grunted, but still it did not budge. He almost screamed in frustration and embarrassment and looked about, the rain plastering his hair to his skull and his breeches stuck to his skin. Surely someone was about? But the light rain seemed to have driven everyone inside.

Behind him then, he heard the steady clump of many booted feet and he turned in horror to see a group of cheerful Dwarves marching over the bridge behind him, talking and laughing and slapping each other on the backs as if congratulating each other upon their arrival and the rain seemed not to bother them in the least. They nodded cheerfully to him, and the foremost, a white-haired Dwarf with a white hood, blue cloak and an impressive gold chain around his neck, stepped in front of Legolas, and if he did not exactly shoulder him out of the way there was no doubt that this impressive Dwarf felt he was in charge. Legolas simply stepped back instinctively, but as he watched, he thought that at least he would not be alone and if the Dwarves knew some secret ,at least he could get in.

It seemed the Dwarf did indeed know something but it was hardly a secret. He reached up to the heavy iron handle set into the door that Legolas had struggled with only moments ago, turned it, as Legolas had, and pulled, as he had not.

The door swung open smoothly, momentously as if it were announcing them and it seemed to Legolas that he looked into a hall filled with light and music and merry voices. Warmth bathed the room like sunlight, and fragrance like roses stole through the air.

Suddenly the hall was full of Elves, and the Dwarves were bowing and shrugging out of their wet cloaks and the Elves were taking their packs from the Dwarves and laughing and calling out merrily to each other.

Legolas stood looking and feeling as stupid as Galadhon had told him he was, for this could never happen to Thalos or Laersul; he cursed himself inwardly in Silvan, Sindarin and the few words of Khuzdul which he had overheard his father use once and Galion, catching Legolas listening, had washed his ears out. Pull the door, he muttered to himself, pull. Until finally his wits recovered and he stepped inside.

A younger Dwarf with a glossy chestnut beard and wiry hair thrust his cloak at Legolas with a cheery nod and a slight bow, and the next thing he knew any number of good-humoured Dwarves dumped their wet and soggy cloaks upon him and he stood there, buried in damp dwarven cloaks and hoods and feeling as Bilbo Baggins did when Thorin and Co. descended on Bag End, although Legolas did not know this at the time.

'Come along, fellow,' said an Elf in passing and pushed him towards a door. 'I have not seen you around before. You must be one of the new household Elves. Take the Dwarves' cloaks and hang them by the fire in the scullery. And then quickly, get them beer and cake. They like that best. Follow Berensul. He'll show you where everything is.'

Berensul seemed to be the Elf in front of Legolas, and before he could say anything, Legolas found himself being bundled along and down towards the kitchens. 'Quick, follow Elemé. That way,' Berensul said, pushing Legolas after a smiling Elf-maiden, presumably Elemé.

'But I have only just got here myself,' Legolas protested.

'Well never mind, make yourself useful,' Berensul said sympathetically, pushing Legolas into a passageway. 'You'll soon learn.' Berensul looked at Legolas over the top of the huge pile of soggy cloaks Legolas was still holding and smiled. He had a wide cheerful smile, long dark hair and green twinkly eyes. 'Here, dump those cloaks and take this.' Berensul seemed to conjure from nothing platters of cakes, seed-cakes in particular, and balanced the tray on top of the cloaks in Legolas' arms, where the plates wobbled precariously. 'Take these up to the Hall of Fire. That's where the wet visitors will be. There's a Man there as well, just come in. Almost drowned by the look of him. Why are you still holding those cloaks? Don't you want to put them down somewhere? Here, put them down here.' He waved towards a small scullery just off the kitchen and then peered at him curiously and said, 'You look pretty damp yourself. Don't you want to get into some dry clothes? Never mind,' he said, not waiting for Legolas' answer but turning Legolas around by his elbow and pointing him towards the kitchen door. 'I'll sort you out in a moment but be a good fellow, dump the cloaks and just take these up to the Hall of Fire like I said.'

Legolas opened his mouth but found he really did not know what to say except, 'I have just arrived...with the Dwarves. I have come from over the Mountains too and I do not know where the Hall of Fire is.'

Berensul stared at him for a moment. 'You came with them? How strange! Are you their servant then? I wondered why you had their cloaks!' He laughed loudly, slapped his own thigh and looked up at Legolas with delight and merriment. 'Well I'm blessed! Here you are a visitor, a servant of the Dwarves, and I am ordering you about thinking you are our new scullery boy! You will want to take them their ale. In here.' He gently pushed Legolas towards a small scullery.

Legolas opened and closed his mouth like a fish. He was actually speechless. Which was worse? To be mistaken for a servant of the Dwarves or thought the new scullery boy? He decided it was far worse to be a servant of the Dwarves.

'I am not the Dwarves' servant!' he said in outrage and Berensul stared at him. 'I only arrived at the same time as they did. I happened to be standing there when they gave me all their cloaks! I have come from the Woodland Realm.'

'The Woodland Realm...um...' Berensul stared at him for a moment blankly and then understanding dawned on his face. 'Aaaaah... You mean Mirkwood! Well why didn't you say so!'

Legolas opened his mouth to protest further but Berensul had already grabbed him by the elbow and pushed him into a huge kitchen with no fewer than three fireplaces. It was filled with Elves bustling about and calling to each other, some whistling, some singing. It seemed a merry place. Much like the kitchen at home, although much bigger, and more elegant, he thought, feeling out of place and a bit intimidated.

'We have a visitor from Mirkwood!' Berensul bellowed over the noise, and there was a moment of startled silence and faces turned towards him in astonishment and curiosity. Then the Elves smiled and nodded, and resumed their work and Berensul laughed and drew Legolas to one side.

'Well, they have all had a good look at you now. You'll be swamped with questions in a moment. But first they must look after the Dwarves and we must look after you.' He swept his merry green eyes quickly over Legolas, who realised he was standing now in a small puddle. Berensul laughed again as he saw Legolas' chagrin.

'Sit down there and get out of those wet clothes. I'll get someone else to take these up.' Berensul looked at him again and laughed some more. He had a generous, open face and Legolas found himself liking him and smiling himself at the ridiculousness of it. 'And there was I dumping cakes on top of all those wet cloaks and telling you to look sharpish! You'll be telling me next you are a messenger from Thranduil!'

Legolas bit his lip and did not dare say more but Berensul saw and stared at him aghast. 'Oh my lord Manwë! Of course you are. Look, here is his sigil!' He pointed to the oak leaves embroidered on Legolas' cuff. 'I do apologise, emissary.' His green eyes twinkled and Legolas shook his head and laughed along with him.

'No emissary indeed! Just with messages from my lord Thranduil,' he said. And after all, was he not just a messenger? He felt a smile tug the corners of his mouth. 'I am Legolas,' he added with a wry smile. Anyone from the Woods would recognise his familiar name but oh, no one here would know. 'Um. Is Mithrandir here?' he thought he had better ask, but Berensul had already stacked up trays of seed-cakes and balanced another platter with cheese and a ham. There were other Elves too, looking curiously at Legolas but smiling and nodding,and gathering up vittles for the Dwarves and holding great tankards in their strong hands, three or four at a time.

'He has been with my Lord Elrond, but he may have ridden out with Glorfindel or maybe into the Wilds with Elrohir and Elladan. I will find out for you. Stay here and get out of those wet clothes. I will find something dry for you.'

Suddenly the Elves emptied out of the kitchen, each carrying either tankards of ale or piles of plates loaded with cakes and cheese and bread. Legolas was alone in the kitchens and sitting on a stool. He felt overwhelmed; names from history, from legends, were bandied about as if they were normal everyday folk, not the stuff of tales, and suddenly Legolas did not want to meet any of them. At least, not like this. Not drenched and like a half drowned rat and with such news. He let his shoulders slump.

But then he caught sight of the embroidered oak leaves on his sleeve again. His father would be really disappointed if he saw him so despondent. And his brothers. He was here to bear witness to the price paid by the Woodelves, to Naurion and Anglach and Celdir.

So he squelched into the scullery that Berensul had shown him earlier and gave a sigh and then stood and lifted first one foot, then the other to tug off his soggy boots, and held them over the drain. Water dripped out.

He lay his cloak over a chair that stood nearby and unbuckled his belt, lying it next to his cloak. He stripped off his sodden tunic and looked about the scullery to see what was obviously some sort of clothesline for linen so he slung his tunic over it and watched the water drip slowly onto the floor and into a runnel in the middle of the floor clearly to collect drips. He stripped off his shirt too so he stood half-naked, but stopped at his breeches. They were soaked too but this was, after all, a kitchen, and the thin leather was slick against his skin and he would have to peel them off. He glanced around but there were no dry cloaks or blankets or anything he could cover himself with.

He grappled around his pack and pulled out one soaking wet item after another and slung them over the line strung along the length of the scullery until he had nothing left in his light pack and then he began to wick the water from his breeches, by sliding his hands down his thighs, then bending over and sliding his hands down his calves and wicking off the water from the leather that clung tightly, uncomfortably to his legs, skin-tight. He was aware too that his hair was wet and wrung it out so water pooled around him and ran down the runnel.

It was a while before he realised he was not alone.

He looked up to see an Elf, broad-shouldered, well muscled, older and much heavier than he. Long black hair was pulled back in a severe and businesslike horsetail. Dressed in a simple tunic and hose, he was watching with a smile on his lips of wry amusement.

Legolas bristled but before he could speak, the other Elf held up his hand in peace and spoke.

'I mean no harm.' His voice was rich, mellow, but above all, kindly. 'I am merely amused that you have chosen to strip off and use the wine cellar for a linen press.'

Legolas' mouth formed a round O and he looked about, mentally smacking himself on the forehead for a fool. Around him were shelves of dusty bottles and the runnel of course was for dregs and spills. The clothesline was...well, he did not know what that was for. But it was a cellar. And now he remembered that Berensul had shoved him in here when he was getting the ale for the Dwarves. Great oaken casks and barrels lay on their sides. The Dwarves' cloaks were nowhere in sight.

'I thought it was a scullery. I am sorry.' He sighed and hung his head and then started reaching up to drag his horrible wet clothes off the line. As he pulled them towards him, they slapped against his bare, wet skin.

'No,' the Elf and reached out his hand and stopped Legolas. 'Leave them. No one will mind, I am sure,' he said and laughed. He had a rich laugh. It rolled around his mouth like the fine wine had had clearly come to fetch, for he held an elegant wine jug in one hand. 'Is Berensul elsewhere?' He did not take his hand from Legolas' arm and the warmth seemed to suffuse his skin and muscle and flesh and spread down his arm and into his body.

'He has gone to look after the Dwarves.' Legolas felt awkward and looked down at his wet naked chest. The yarë-carmé* gleamed and swirled on his half-naked body in the firelight and his wet leather breeches were tight as his own skin. He felt suddenly self-conscious and wanted to pull his cloak around him but it would surely be discourteous, implying he wanted to hide from the Elf...which he did, but he did not want to be rude either.

It was only then that the Elf took his hand away and when he did, Legolas shivered.

'Here, you are cold surely?' The Elf disappeared into another small room off the kitchen for a moment and then reappeared with a woolen tunic. It looked very fine. Legolas looked at it doubtfully. 'The owner will not mind, I am certain. He is away from home for the moment,' said the Elf again and his warm eyes came to rest on Legolas, drifting down to his naked chest and torso and one eyebrow raised.

Legolas felt suddenly self-conscious and pulled the tunic over his head. It was warm and soft, the finest wool certainly, and it was edged with the star of Earendil, Elrond's sigil. He looked up. 'Thank you,' he said and looked down at the small puddle about his bare feet. 'I am not making a very good impression,' he added sadly.

The other Elf said nothing for a moment, and Legolas looked up to meet warmth in the grey eyes. 'I would not say that at all,' he smiled and Legolas felt like a balm had been poured over him, a peace that crept over his limbs, and he felt suddenly weary but safe.

'Here,' the Elf tossed him a pair of dark blue hose, not breeches. 'These will be warmer than the leather you wear. Though not as well fitting,' he commented, turning away as Legolas bent to peel away the leather breeches that really did feel and look now, like a second skin. Only now did he realise how he must have looked to the Elf...the wet leather breeches clinging like a second skin, the wild painting over his bare chest and his long hair plastered down his back, over his shoulders. His naked feet. A wild Woodelf indeed, he grimaced uncomfortably.

As if the Elf realised how he was feeling , he smiled and bowed slightly. 'Please forgive me. I was here to collect some wine for the high table. I will leave you to make yourself more comfortable.'

'Thank you, my lord,' he felt compelled to add, for the man was lordly and kind, and old, his ancient wisdom shone. And his grey eyes were full of a sadness that Legolas had seen often in the forest...a loss borne deeply in his heart, and Legolas, because he was a kind and generous soul, leaned slightly towards him and listened to his Song to give him comfort. A low humming rose in the back of his throat and he half closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the wind, the air swirling around the world, rushing between Sea and Stars, the metallic chime of the stars more intense, brighter, and merged with the sorrowful cry of a lonely bird Legolas had never heard before, and it stirred something deep in his breast...

...There was the sound of horses galloping, a banner snapping in the wind...And something else, a great power...blue, swirling power that leapt up to meet Legolas' own song. And he felt suddenly overwhelmed, like he had been snatched up by the wind, and he staggered back a step. His lips parted and he raised his eyes to look into the lord's face, which was also startled and concerned. He took a step back as if Legolas made him feel...not fear, but something else. He caught up a bottle without looking at it and sketched another bow and turned and hurried out.

Legolas was left standing there, feeling as if he had done something wrong. He cursed himself roundly. Perhaps it was an intrusion for the Noldor, although the Elf had not been wholly Noldor. Too late now, he thought, looking to where the Elf had strode away.

Legolas pulled his clothes off the slender line that crossed the wine cellar and stood looking hopelessly for a moment.

It was then that Berensul returned, with the other maids and manservants. They were laughing and Berensul was doing an impression of a Dwarf, tucking his chin against his chest and booming.

'Here! Legolas?' Berensul pulled Legolas out into the warmth of the kitchen. 'This is the one I told you of,' he called to the others. 'He has crossed the Mountains on an errand for Thranduil and I dumped the Dwarves' wet cloaks on him and sent him off to get seed-cakes!' There was much merriment and then Berensul fingered the tunic he wore. He screwed up his face a moment.

'That is not one I would have chosen for you. It is the Lord Elrohir's. Don't let him catch you wearing it- he will mind!' Berensul snagged another from the warming cupboard where the Dwarves' cloaks had been hung. Inside, the laundry hung on wooden racks and hooks and lines and the dry laundry was carefully folded and in huge baskets. Everything smelled clean and warm. Berensul took Legolas' wet clothes from him and dumped them in a basket. 'Elemé, will you see to Legolas' wet clothes?' A girl giggled and blushed and Legolas smiled at her so she giggled and blushed even more. She was pretty, he decided.

'Put this on, it is not so fine. What taste you have!'

'A man, a lord, came in. He gave it to me, said the owner would not mind.' Legolas stripped off the tunic that was Elrohir's and, aware of the small gasps and giggles behind him, quickly pulled the new tunic over his head.

'The hose you can keep. I know not whose they are,' Berensul said carelessly and then frowned. 'Who did he say he was?'

'He did not, but he came for wine.'

'Ah, that will likely be Lord Erestor. Tall, dark, a bit forbidding?'

'A little,' said Legolas, thinking the man had not been forbidding but very, very sad. He did not feel it would be right to tell Berensul though. 'He said the owner would not mind.'

'Definitely Erestor. He thinks Elrohir too proud and away from home too often. He thinks it grieves our Lord, which it does. But that will make no difference.' Berensul stopped and sighed and Legolas felt there was something he was expected to know but he did not. He thrust a tunic at Legolas that was like his own, brown with the small stars of the House embroidered on the collar but very homely.

'Here,' Berensul threw a towel at Legolas. 'Dry yourself off a bit more and come and eat something. We are having our supper before the main House sits, so make the most of it. You will be fit to present yourself to Erestor then for your message.'

'My message is for Mithrandir, not Erestor,' said Legolas unhappily. He did not want anyone else to know of the news, that the creature Smeagol had slipped away while the guards had been attacked, slaughtered, slain, captured. He looked down, remembering the horror of that brief battle...and suddenly felt unbearably weary.

Berensul caught his elbow as he wobbled and gently sat him down on a bench.

'Eat, then sleep. You are exhausted. I will let Erestor know and you can present yourself to him tomorrow.'

One of the maids pushed past and said something quietly to Berensul and he snapped back a quick remark that left her laughing. He drew Legolas to a bench at a long table and suddenly all the kitchen servants were sitting around him and chattering and talking and helping themselves to the food put carelessly on the table.

'We have some hours before I am needed,' Berensul told Legolas. 'And I intend to find you a chamber and then see where Mithrandir is so you can give him your message.'

'That will be a relief,' Legolas said. He took rolls of hot bread when Berensul offered and a chunk of cheese and yellow butter, slices of the ham and piled his plate, so glad it was proper food and not lembas. He was starving.

The maids watched him laughing.

'Did they not feed you in Mirkwood?' one girl asked lightly and Legolas forgave her her rudeness because it was not intended and she was the pretty girl who had blushed at him earlier.

'I am hungry,' he said smiling and then said gently, 'And it is not Mirkwood. It is very beautiful though there is much that is overrun with Shadow.'

The little gathering became quieter then and there were some uncomfortable glances.

'It comes closer, does it not?' a serious girl asked. 'Lord Elrond has spent all his time with the Hobbit...'

'And the Lords are out hunting for signs...'

'Glorfindel has ridden out again...'

'And Lords Elrohir and Elladan have gone down river...and Estel...'

Legolas was very hungry but he tried to listen attentively so he could take information back to his father, but one of the other maids who had not yet spoken and was sitting next to him had let her hand drop, as if by accident, onto his thigh and he liked the warmth of it there. He swallowed his food and wiped his mouth, then turned his face towards her and gave her a blazing smile that left her open-mouthed and bedazzled.

'Legolas is it?' a large Elf with his hair severely tied back and the look of someone who is king of his own world called his attention. Legolas thought he must be the cook. 'Tell us the news from Mirkwood. Has the King Under the Mountain really a river of gold?' He thought too that the look the Elf gave the girl was enough to send her attention scurrying back to her food, and Legolas turned regretfully to the cook and bowed slightly, for it was always politic to give obedience to Kings, he knew, wherever they may be, and whatever their kingdom.

Even so. 'We do not call it Mirkwood, master,' he said but smiled so as not to earn the wrath of this Elf. 'But news? Well, the towns of Dale and Esgaroth are restored and the Dwarves of the Mountain have some trade with us. Dain is, we think, a good King and the river flows, but not with gold I think.'

It was easier then, and there was no more mention of darkness or shadow and that suited Legolas too, for he had not forgotten the touch of the Nazgûl upon the mountains and he wanted to tell Mithrandir all sorts of things in the morning. If not, he would have to tell this Erestor or demand to speak to Elrond himself. He sighed. He did not look forward to any of this.

There was good hot bread and cold beef, and all sorts of good wholesome food. And the kitchen was filled with other smells of delicacies and cooking for the nobles and their families. Legolas knew he should declare himself. He would do so tomorrow if need be, he thought, but he much preferred the warm friendliness of the kitchen over the cool reception he would get from the Noldor. All would want to know why he was here, why he was on his own, what was the message, and so on. And he preferred they did not know his shame. It would be bad enough to have to tell Mithrandir, let alone anyone else.

o0o0o

Berensul showed him a chamber high up beneath the eaves of the house where the servants and messengers slept when they visited. Legolas did not mind; it was better than a barracks and like everything in Imladris, it was elegant and had a bed in it as well as a wash stand and a chest of drawers. Berensul lingered in the doorway, lounged against the doorpost as Legolas looked about. 'Elemé likes you,' he told Legolas.

Legolas turned and smiling said, 'She is very pretty. Does she not have a suitor?'

'Yes. He is a guard, out with the Lords Elrohir and Elladan.'

Legolas shrugged, trying not to appear too impressed that the guard was riding with the Sons of Thunder, but he was disappointed that the maid had a suitor. 'Never mind. I am only here one maybe two nights.' He leaned his bow carefully against the wall and his knives beside them. 'Once I have told Mithrandir my message I must leave.'

'Surely not straight away?' Legolas turned at the disappointment in Berensul's voice and saw that the Elf had pushed himself away from the post and had taken a step towards him. 'You have not seen anything of Imladris yet...' Berensul said, standing closer. 'There is the Hall of Fire, and the gardens are very lovely. The shards of Narsil are here too. Surely it is worth delaying one or two more days? There will be parties leaving soon over the mountains. Would you not rather travel with others?'

Legolas admitted he would and let himself drop and stretch out on the bed. It was soft but not grand, fit for a messenger rather than one of the great lords who might visit.

'I suppose I could stay a day or two,' he smiled up at Berensul who was coming towards him now. 'But I will have to return then,' he added more soberly, looking round the room.

'I have heard there is to be a scouting party going over the Mountains in a couple of days. You could join them,' Berensul said lightly, sitting on the bed next to Legolas and looking down.

'That would be a great relief,' Legolas admitted. His hands were behind his head and his long body stretched out. There was warmth on his thigh where Berensul sat close and he looked up, held Berensul's green eyes with his own. He shifted slightly to make room for Berensul.

There was a moment and then Berensul threw himself down next to Legolas and mirrored his position, long lean body stretched out, hands behind his head. Legolas was very tired and wanted nothing more than sleep...but tomorrow would be different and once he had delivered his message, he would give himself two days of rest and then return perhaps with one of these scouting parties of which Berensul had spoken.

'There is hot water in that jug on the stand,' Berensul turned his head slightly and looked at Legolas. 'I would use it before it gets cold.'

'Am I that bad?' he asked, chagrinned. 'I have been travelling for weeks so I should not be surprised. And usually I am amongst other warriors and we do not care if we smell like orcs!'

'It is not the worst thing I have ever smelled,' Berensul responded lightly. 'There are baths if you prefer. You could even sneak into the family's bathing chambers.'

Legolas laughed softly. 'Surely not!'

'They will not know. The Lords Elrohir and Elladan are away. Arwen has her own quarters and anyway, is with her betrothed and my Lord Elrond will be welcoming the Dwarves this evening, as will Glorfindel and Erestor so there is no question of your being disturbed.'

'That does sound very appealing,' Legolas yawned suddenly and Berensul nudged him. 'But I do not think I should impose on my hosts. Am I so smelly that it can it not wait until morning? I can always stand outside in the rain again,' he added, smiling and yawning.

Berensul laughed and thumped him lightly. 'It certainly cannot wait and that is no solution! It will attract even more attention!' he said. 'You'll have everyone staring.'

Legolas grimaced. 'I suppose you are right,' he said sighing.'They will have enough to mock me for soon enough,' he added miserably thinking of the messages he was to deliver.

'Mock you? I do not think they would mock you,' Berensul raised an eyebrow. He sighed and pushed himself up on his elbow, looking down at Legolas. 'You are a stranger come from Mirkwood, and they will be intrigued, curious. And you are certainly no messenger. You do not look like a messenger and you do not have the build of a servant but that of a warrior. You just walk wrong, like you should be running through a forest hunting goblins.'

Legolas thought about this, and found himself a little flattered, but also a little embarrassed at being seen in this way.

Berensul pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the washstand where there was a jug of hot water and soap and towels. 'You can stay here if you wish. There is hot water here for the pipes do not reach as far as these rooms although we can use the shared baths of course. But the Dwarves may be using them and have probably used most of the hot water so it may not be enough.'

'I will stay here and use this,' Legolas decided, 'I would definitely never want to share bath water with a Dwarf!' he declared and Berensul laughed and agreed.

'Although they are very clean. They always want oils for their beards and hair, and they like scented soaps and they are very fussy about the softness of the towels,' Berensul complained, fussing himself over the soap and towels that someone had kindly put out for Legolas' use. 'I have to go and help in the kitchen but I will come back later if you wish?' he said with a quick glance towards Legolas.

Legolas rolled to his feet and went over to the washstand, tugging his borrowed tunic over his head as he did. He dropped it on the floor and Berensul laughed.

'You see? Definitely a warrior.' But his eyes lingered on the yarë-carmé and Legolas thought perhaps others would have stared too. He found he did not mind Berensul staring.

'I have to go,' Berensul said quite suddenly and he pulled open the door. Then he turned and paused and said, looking at Legolas again, 'Shall I come back later?'

Legolas was already pouring hot water into the china bowl provided. It would do. 'Of course, if I am still awake.' But he felt the tiredness of his limbs and the need for rest, but he had been on his own in the mountains for so long so he added, knowing it would sound ridiculous, 'Will you come and wake me even if I sleep?' He sniffed the soap gingerly. It had a strange scent, musky.

Berensul flashed him a bright smile and Legolas looked at him and stayed looking even after the door had closed. He thought of Alagos' warnings about Imladris, and their Laws and wondered if Alagos and the book had quite got everything right. He was lonely after all that time in the mountains and when he slipped into dreams, it was not the mountains he thought of, but long dark hair and merry green eyes.

0o0o0

True to his word, Berensul did wake Legolas, with a bottle of wine on one hand and a cheeky grin on his face. 'You have set them all astir,' he said as Legolas blinked himself awake and rubbed his face. 'The maids are all hoping you will stay for a week and you are the talk of the kitchen.' He plonked himself on the bed and looked down at Legolas. Legolas slowly remembered where he was, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking and pushing his long hair out of his eyes, away from his face.

'Are you going to stay there all night or are you coming down to the Hall of Fire?' Berensul asked. The blanket had been shucked down over Legolas' naked abdomen by Berensul sitting on the bed, and he was aware that Berensul stole a sly glance. 'There are Hobbits and Dwarves and a Man from Gondor. He traveled all the way on his own. Imagine.'

Legolas covered his mouth as he yawned and then stretched, put his hands under his head and leaned back. He had left his borrowed tunic and hose on the chair and saw Berensul's eyes dart towards them. He did not think it would matter to Berensul and if he did, well, he would just have to close his eyes.

'I just hope Aragorn does not start singing the Lay of Luthien,' Berensul was saying but he was staring at the painted swirls and geometric patterns on Legolas' skin. 'It really upsets everyone.'

Legolas' good feeling vanished. Aragorn. That was the Man who had brought Gollum to the Wood. He felt a little pit of misery open up in his belly. He was not sure if it was worse to be telling Mithrandir that Gollum had escaped, or telling Aragorn, who had fought Gollum all the way to the Wood and been so relieved to be rid of him. So there would be no escape. 'Is Aragorn in the Hall of Fire?' he asked, thinking that Aragorn would want to know what had brought Legolas to Imladris, and he would have to tell the Man the news of Gollum's escape. He thought Aragorn might be a harder judge than Mithrandir,and strangely, for he had spent little time with Aragorn, he wanted the Man to think well of him. Now the idea of the Man's disapproval, his disappointment, made a little patter of anxiety start up in his belly. He rubbed his hand over his eyes.

'Yes, he has been here since he brought the Hobbits here. Oh, and I have found Mithrandir. I know you were anxious to see him. He seems to know the Dwarves very well.'

Legolas sighed. It just got worse and worse. He certainly did not wish to tell his terrible news in front of Dwarves and Hobbits, although he would have liked to have spoken with any Hobbits. It would have to wait until the morning, he decided, when he could see Mithrandir on his own. His news would get around soon enough he was sure and then he would have to stand his ground and do as his father required; to bear witness to the price they had paid. And he needed to be strong for that.

'He is in the Hall of Fire too I think.' Berensul leaned back on the bed alongside Legolas, rested his head on his arm like Legolas did. He glanced at Legolas with concern. 'If it will ease you, let us find him now. Glorfindel was there too, and Elrohir. He returned this evening.'

It got worse and worse. Now it was not only giving the news of the failure to keep Gollum, but to give it now in front of Dwarves, Aragorn, AND these great legends. How they would despise him. Not for the first time, or the last, he wished he might somehow avoid all this.

He rolled onto his belly and propped himself up on his elbows, worried. 'I think it can wait,' he said pensively.

Berensul laughed gently. 'You get used to it. Glorfindel is the hardest one to treat. He is glorious.' He sighed and Legolas gave an anxious little smile back. 'Now. Are we drinking that wine or is it mere decoration?' Berensul held up the bottle in invitation. 'We will have to drink it from the bottle,' Berensul swung his legs back to the ground and sat up. He produced a thin knife which he wedged beneath the wax seal on the top of the bottle and lifted it. Then he wiped it round with a cloth he had tucked into his belt.

Legolas had only half a mind on what Berensul did. He did not want to give news that would disappoint Mithrandir, but he wanted them to understand too the cost, as his father bid, and he suddenly wondered if he had the words to convey the truth, the flight through the forest after the Orcs, the screaming as they tormented Nauriel, Anglach's eyes as they glazed in slow death...

Berensul nudged his arm and he suddenly became aware that his companion was talking, was looking at him. 'Of course you Woodelves drink from the barrel so this will be positively sophisticated.' Berensul grinned and his green eyes twinkled. He tucked the cloth into his belt, and the knife into his boot, and held the bottle in one hand, took a swig from it.

Legolas glanced up at Berensul, tried to smile. 'A barrel? That's better than usual,' he responded, knowing it was weak, struggling to push away the dark thoughts. He felt a warmth at his side and glanced down. Berensul's free hand was close, not quite touching.

There was a moment of silence, each intensely aware of the other's heat.

Berensul glanced down at his hand, where it was so close to Legolas. Then he looked up again.'Is it true too, that you lie with both men and maids?' he asked slowly his eyes on Legolas' face, his mouth.

'Do you mean me, or Woodelves generally?' Legolas asked surprised, and saw that Berensul's eyes gleamed and he moved his hand a little closer to Legolas, but still did not touch him. The silence stretched a little longer.

Berensul quirked an eyebrow. 'You. Both.' He took another swig from the bottle. His lips were red from the wine.

Legolas blinked and looked down for a moment; this was certainly not what he had expected, not that it was unwelcome. Indeed, the long and lonely journey had exhausted him and he wanted physical closeness, comfort now. He considered for a moment what Alagos had told him, warned him and concluded that perhaps Alagos had just not met the right Elves in Imladris. He also thought that perhaps the book he had read in Thranduil's library could simply be wrong.

So he took the bottle from Berensul, took a swig himself and let the wine soak his mouth. He nodded approvingly and gave it back to Berensul.

'Yes. Both, mostly,' he replied, keeping his eyes on Berensul's. 'But some only ever lie with their beloved,' he added in a very serious voice, and then, feigning a shock, he added. 'And some even wed and beget little Woodelves. And some bond with the trees and some with the spiders.'

Berensul gave a laugh and thumped him lightly on the shoulder. Taking a long drink from from the bottle, Berensul wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gave it back to Legolas.

Legolas drank then, and looked appreciatively at the half empty bottle now. 'Is it true that you Noldor think that you will be damned and thrown into the Void if you do not bond with any that you lie with?' he asked in return.

Berensul shifted slightly and his green eyes met Legolas'. 'Many of the Noldor still think that.' He paused. 'The Laws and Customs are that we wed and stay with that one woman and desire fades... But there are not only Noldor here.' And he tilted his head slightly then.

Legolas smiled at the gesture, understanding the acceptance, permission in that gesture. 'And you are not entirely Noldor,' he said.

Berensul met his gaze. 'My mother is from Lothlorien. My father is Noldor.'

'Ah.' Legolas nodded, then he rolled onto his back and shuffled closer to Berensul, the thin blanket wrapped around his lean hips. Berensul smiled and toed off his shoes and let them clatter to the floor. Then he propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over Legolas, looked into his eyes and Legolas felt his heart thump in his chest and smiled, tilted his head slightly. There was a moment of silence and then Berensul leaned closer, and slowly, deliberately pressed his mouth against Legolas. He tasted of wine. Then Berensul broke away slowly and kept his eyes on Legolas', and he tasted his own lips, red with wine.

Legolas smiled. 'That was nice,' he said and he took Berensul's hand then, wound his fingers into his. 'Shall we try another?' he asked and could not suppress the smile.

This time, Berensul was more demanding and when he pressed his mouth to Legolas', he forced his tongue into Legolas' mouth and let his hand stroke down Legolas' naked shoulder. The blanket tangled around Legolas' legs and he kicked it off the bed onto the floor and pressed himself against Berensul's long body.

'You must be hot in all those clothes,' Legolas murmured and plucked at the ties of Berensul's tunic. Next he sat up so he could more easily slide the tunic and shirt over the dark Elf's head and cast it to the floor. He looked at the unmarked, unblemished body before him and ran his hand over the flat chest and belly, slid his fingers beneath the waistband of his hose to the smooth skin of his engorged flesh. He slid the palm of his hand over the silky skin of Berensul's cock and cupped his balls.

Suddenly Berensul's hand stopped him. Legolas looked up into his face; he was looking at him strangely. 'Is this a bonding in Mirkwood?' he asked sounding strained.

Legolas pulled back quickly. 'No,' he said alarmed. 'Do you wish to bond?'

'No,' Berensul laughed with him, both realising the other felt the same relief.

Legolas shook his head in relief. 'Good. Not that you are not a worthy spouse but in the Wood, like here, a bond is mainly between a man and woman for children. Although there are those who bond with another man or another woman. It does not seem to matter to anyone.' Legolas turned his hand to twine his fingers with Berensul's, and lifted his head to kiss Berensul deeply. He felt a surge of lust and desire and when Berensul touched the swirls around his nipple, Legolas caught his breath for the shock of lust it always sent through him. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at Berensul.

'What are these markings?' Berensul asked.

'These are the signs of my House,' Legolas said, looking down and pointing out the oak and ash and thorn of Oropher, the green-gold that was his own. 'And this is Smaug,' he said running a finger over the swirls and geometric patterns over his shoulder.

Berensul peered at it for a moment and then his face cleared. 'Ah. I see it now.' He traced the sinuous line of the dragon as it coiled around Legolas' torso, his hips, his thigh.

'We do not have to...' Legolas began, thinking he sensed a hesitation, but Berensul shushed him and leaned in again for another kiss and this time, his hand grasped Legolas firmly. Legolas sighed and pushed against the hold, shoved his hand beneath Berensul's hose and stroked him too so the kiss deepened and their tongues met and pushed and swirled around each other.

'Have you ever...?' Legolas began but Berensul nodded impatiently and pushed Legolas down onto his back.

Legolas laughed slightly breathless. 'This is not what I expected.'

'No?' Berensul placed the palm of his hand firmly on Legolas' flat belly and moved between Legolas' thighs. Legolas looked up at him, into the lustful green eyes and reached up to slide his hands through the dark silk hair. Berensul licked his lips then and pushed his hands beneath Legolas' hips, pulled him close. Legolas felt the stiff heat nudge against his buttocks and his lips parted slightly in surprise at Berensul's confidence, his forthrightness.

'No...I did not,' Legolas said and laughed breathlessly again. 'I thought...'

'You thought there would be none of this sharing between men,' Berensul said smiling, but his eyes were half closed with desire and lust. 'But when I saw you in the wine cellar, I wanted you.' He leaned forwards and kissed Legolas deeply and when he pulled back, they stopped speaking for it was all sensation and panting, breathless desire and heat and then liquid pooling deep in Legolas' belly, he rode the waves of desire until both exploded.

tbc

* This is what the Noldor believed of the Woodelves- source, Silmarillion and Hobbit.

*yäré-carmé - the tattoos the Woodelves use- they mark each limb with an identification of their House and name. A necessity in the Wood in case they are caught by Orcs and dismembered. They also use this as rites of passage and initiation into various cults. One day I'll get round to writing the story of the dragon.

Hope you liked that little snippet. Next chapter is written but reviews really encourage me to get my act together! If I get three comments I'll post the next one early.


	7. Chapter 7

Beta: Thank you Anarithilien, who has given so much of her time to this whilst also completing her SIX YEAR opus, Dark Forest. A wonderful and rich story.

Special thanks too to Spiced Wine who, as my favourite Noldor/Silmarillion expert, has helped so generously with Erestor's back story, which is in itself a bit of a tale!

And as always, lovely reviewers like Ingrid, who is so encouraging and keeps me writing.

This is set the night before the Council of Elrond- the night Legolas arrives in Imladris, the Dwarves.

 

Chapter 7: Many Meetings

 

It was late by the time Erestor had completed all his duties. He had seen that all the guests were settled and in comfortable accommodation. He had been a little concerned by the number of Dwarves who had arrived, and the Man who had come all the way from Gondor, and the Hobbits. He was unsurprised of course by the appetites of the Hobbits at least, having now been host to Bilbo Baggins for some years. And he was fond of the old Hobbit and pleased that some of his kin were here whatever the reason for their flight. At least the messenger from Mirkwood had been hastily bundled into a suitable room high up in the eaves of the House by Berensul, who had then hurried to tell Erestor as he knew he should.

What is his name? Erestor struggled to remember as he strode up the wide sweep of steps to Elrond's rooms, two at a time. I know it was not Alagos who came this time.

He did not knock, and entered without glancing even at the three occupants already seated in wide comfortable chairs placed about a blazing fire. The nights were cold even in the Valley and it was late October. He himself would have thrown the windows wide and welcomed the cold mountain air and the sound of rushing water, but not everyone was as he. Glorfindel turned his head as Erestor came in and the firelight turned his rich hair molten gold. One could not help looking at Glorfindel, thought Erestor without rancour.

Erestor strode over to the sideboard where several bottles of good wine stood open and breathing, and one remaining goblet. He poured wine, rich and red, into the goblet and lifted it in salutation. Then he shrugged his velvet robe from his shoulders and threw it over the back of the empty chair and sat in it, draping one long lean leg over the arm of the chair in an overtly sensual way and gave a thin smile. In his linen shirt, fine velvet hose, and soft suede boots he knew how he looked and enjoyed the effect hugely. He let the cup dangle from his long fingers and pulled his long hair over one shoulder as if unconsciously.

Glorfindel gave him a wry look.

'There was a messenger from Mirkwood,' he said by way of explaining his lateness. 'He arrived with the Dwarves.'

'Ah, I met him,' said Elrond. 'He was in the wine cellar, half-dressed and soaked to the skin.' He smiled benignly. 'He was hanging up his clothes and emptying his very wet boots out into the drip-channel.'

'It seems as good a use as any.' Glorfindel turned a bottle upside down and watched a few drops crawl from the lip and drip into his fine goblet. He looked surprised there was none left. Erestor passed a new bottle and watched Glorfindel fill his goblet.

Glorfindel, thought Erestor, had several startlingly capacious abilities; one was to drink fine wine, another was to slay terrifying monsters.

Glorfindel looked up and grinned at Erestor as if he could read his thoughts and said, 'You will be unsurprised to know, Erestor, that your role at the Council tomorrow is to ask the difficult questions. Make sure that Aragorn has his chance to declare himself. Most auspicious that this Boromir of Gondor has joined us. He is the son of the Steward, Denethor.' Glorfindel raised his goblet to Erestor and Erestor glanced towards Elrond. His Lord's face was impassive and his grey eyes stared into the fire. For just a moment the mask slipped and he looked so unhappy that Erestor winced.

However he simply nodded in agreement, unsurprised; it was always his role to move things along. He looked into the depths of the red wine, its was deep and rich and he tasted it on his tongue, at the back of his throat and wondered who had brought out the good stuff that he, Erestor, reserved for very special occasions. Perhaps this was one, he thought.

'So Aragorn will go with the Ring then, and Boromir. At least to Minas Tirith,' he said thoughtfully. 'And who else? Mithrandir? You, Glorfindel?'

'I will if you will,' Glorfindel's lips twitched mischievously, but Erestor did not rise to his bait.

'Mirkwood eh?' Gandalf reached towards his pipe but he did not draw it out. 'How very fortuitous that he comes at this time.'

Erestor caught Glorfindel's eye. Glorfindel stifled a smile and asked obligingly, 'I wonder why he comes now. What news do you think he brings, Mithrandir?'

'Ah, well. It depends.'

Erestor tried not to sigh for Mithrandir would play his little games, but he was curious now that Mithrandir thought a messenger from Mirkwood worthy of mention. 'Berensul is with him,' he dropped in deliberately and watched the reactions of those around him with amusement.

'Poor Berensul,' said Glorfindel laughing and Elrond looked at him.

'I do not think Berensul will find it a hardship,' Elrond said. 'It is not...um... what is his name? The usual messenger. Alagorm?'

'Alagos,' said Erestor. 'No. He is called ... ah, I have forgotten it. Begins with an L. Legolas!' he said triumphantly.

Gandalf nearly spluttered into his wine. 'Legolas? Are you sure?'

That caught all their attention. Erestor thought that he should have pressed Berensul a little harder for information. 'I am sure that is what Berensul said. Yes, Legolas.'

'And who else is with him?' Mithrandir leaned forward and his bright blue eyes were fixed on Erestor now, most disconcertingly.

'He came on his own. Well, he arrived with the Dwarves but it is not clear if he actually travelled with them.'

'Oh, I doubt very much if he travelled with them,' said Mithrandir drily. 'So he came over the Mountains on his own?' The Wizard leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Well now, this is unexpected.'

Elrond turned to Mithrandir with curiosity. 'You know this Legolas, Mithrandir?'

'Oh yes,' said the wizard infuriatingly. 'And I know his business too. He has come to tell us that Gollum has escaped.'

'Oh that,' Erestor waved his hand dismissively for he also had news of that and enjoyed the irritated look on the Wizard's face. 'Yes, and it is right that Thranduil should tell us how this happened.'

'Ah, but he did not need to send his youngest son.' Mithrandir threw a glance that could only be described as smug.

Erestor could not stifle his surprise and dismay. 'Elbereth's tits,' he swore, ignoring the appalled looks from both Mithrandir and Glorfindel at such obscenity. 'We have put Thranduil's son in the domestics' quarters and I have let Berensul...' He did not finish that sentence, had enough sense to put a sock in it, as Glorfindel would say who had language at least as colourful as Erestor's when he wanted. 'Why did he not tell us who he was?' He rounded on Mithrandir as if it were his fault somehow.

'Oh,' the Wizard was now fumbling in his robes for that infernal pipe, Erestor thought. 'I expect he hopes no one will realise. He is probably worried sick about telling everyone that Gollum has escaped...He is a good boy.' The Wizard's eyes were distant for a moment as if he stared into some future and he chewed on the end of the pipe slowly. 'Perhaps I should have told Thranduil more than I did but I felt that there was still some hope left for Gollum. If they were kind to him...And Legolas is very kind.' He lifted his eyebrows and looked down.

He put his pipe between his lips, after a cursory glance around the room as if he cared that no one else smoked, and struck a flame. The flame cast an orange glow on his face for a moment and then died. 'It is no coincidence that the Peoples of Middle Earth are gathering. It is more than fortuitous.'

'It is too late to disturb him now, Erestor, and insist he moves into another room more befitting the son of Thranduil,' Glorfindel said amused no doubt by Erestor's consternation. 'If he is anything like the Woodelves I have met, he will be just as happy sleeping in a tree. And tomorrow you can move him if he wishes it. My guess is that once our assembled guests hear the news at the council, they will all want to depart as quickly as possible to give the news to their lords. And we must give our attention to finding out if the Nazgul have all departed this place or if they yet lurk in the corners and shadows outside Imladris.'

Erestor agreed with Glorfindel. The Nazgul were the greatest threat and even he shivered a little at the thought of all Nine clustered around the edges of Imladris like reaching shadows.

At that, Elrond stirred. 'We will send out riders to seek them after the council. Glorfindel, you will take one company and seek east and Erestor, take another company and seek south. My sons have returned and may have news.' He shuddered almost imperceptibly. 'It frightens me to think they may have encountered the Nine out there in the Wilds.'

Erestor found his heart faltered too at the thought and murmured a quick apology to Elbereth if only she would keep them safe.

'They are uncloaked and unhorsed, my friend,' said Mithrandir with compassion. 'But you are right, they are diminished, not powerless, not even now. And they seek the Ring...They may even have departed completely, but they will be back.'

Erestor said nothing for he did not quite trust that the Sons of Elrond were safe from the Darkness, but it was not only the Nazgul he feared; they had a darkness of their own, in the furious revenge for their mother's torment in the caves of the Orcs. Not for nothing were they known as the Sons of Thunder by the Orcs of the Mountains.

0o0o0o0o

Unaware of the consternation his arrival had caused, Legolas awoke early the next morning feeling sated and comfortable. His limbs were soft with sleep, proper sleep and sex and he felt whole, content. Even though the bed was narrow, it was reasonably soft and the sheets fine enough for him. He blinked sleepily and saw that even in this room high under the eaves the windows were tall and the rooms bright.

He reached out and found the comfortable bed empty, but there was Berensul standing beside the bed, pulling on his clothes. Berensul turned and smiled, and then sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Legolas, smiling. 'Last night was nice. Unexpected.'

Legolas looked at him still disbelievingly. 'Very,' he said. 'I never thought this would be how I spent my first night in Imladris.'

Berensul thinned his lips for a moment. 'We must be careful about last night,' he warned. 'It is true what I said, that some in Imladris would frown upon us.' He shook his head sadly. 'We must be secret.'

Legolas propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Berensul, hoping his caution was not because he was ashamed or that he wanted no more of him. Berensul's long dark hair was combed now and loosely braided, but last night he had been wanton and his long hair had poured over Legolas, his green eyes dark with lust and desire. He lifted his hand and stroked Berensul's face. 'I was hoping we might do this again,' he said.

Berensul laughed and caught his hand. 'If you wish me to come to you tonight, of course I will. But you are only here one more night perhaps and then you will be gone. I do not want you to break my heart.' He grinned brightly and Legolas thought it would take more than one night with him to break Berensul's heart. He had been a skillful lover too, knowing how to draw out the pleasure and how to seek pleasure himself. It had surprised Legolas after all he had been told of Imladris.

'I do not think that likely,' he said wryly. Berensul looked at him then and Legolas wished he had not been so blunt. 'I did not mean to make you sound cold,' he said quickly, regretfully. 'I hope we are friends beyond this. But I am no fool, I know this is only what it is and nothing more.' He kissed the palm of Berensul's hand to soften his words.

Berensul swatted him lightly and said glibly, 'Of course. And there are many maids who wish to have a share of you. I would not deprive them and who knows where that may lead!'

Legolas looked at him in surprise. 'Don't look so scandalised,' Berensul pulled Legolas to his feet. 'You are exotic and new and you cannot expect to stay in this splendid isolation!' He cast a quick, wry look around the room. 'They are already swooning over the Woodelf warrior who has barbaric paintings on his skin and will sweep them off into the trees to make wild love.'

Legolas raised his eyebrows, unable to think of himself in this way and stretched. He padded over to the wash basin and poured freezing water into the bowl. He could not help but gingerly sniff the soap again, puzzled. It was sandalwood, he thought, or something musky. Why would one put scent in soap, he thought. Wouldn't it make him smell odd? Not himself? He thought he might quite like it if he became used to it. He saw Berensul watching him out of the corner of his eye with a look of amusement on his face. So he shook his head slightly and rubbed it between his hands in the water and washed his face, his body and hoped he did not smell like a maiden.

'Does everyone use scent?' he asked, turning around and rubbing his skin with the linen cloth left for the purpose.

Berensul was fully clothed and lay stretched out on the narrow bed, hands clasped behind his head. 'Yes. We do not all want to smell of horses and sweat. Or Orcs.' He grinned appreciatively at Legolas as he leaned over and shook out his own leather breeches and pulled them on. Berensul had brought them up with him, amazingly already dry. He felt more comfortable in his own clothes and slipped his shirt on, then his moss suede tunic. It was still a little damp under the arms but that would not worry him. He carded his fingers through his hair, smoothed his hands quickly over the tight warrior braids and fastened the wide leather belt around his waist, surreptitiously checking that the hidden darts were still in place.

He reached for his twin blades and was just about to sheathe them when Berensul's eyes widened in alarm.

'Oh, you won't need those,' he said quickly. Legolas turned his head to look at him. 'I would leave all that behind if I were you. My lord insists that weapons are left at the porch with the gatekeeper.'

Legolas almost gaped at him. 'Surely not? Do you not need all your warriors armed in case there is an attack?' he asked in astonishment.

'That would never happen,' Berensul said definitely. 'It never has, never will.' He swung his feet to the floor and stood. 'Come. I must not be late or Ceredir will have my liver.' Legolas knew now this was the Cook and he was a terror in the way that Galion was not. Berensul threw open the door and looked out of the door warily. 'You must present yourself to my Lord Erestor properly. He was too busy last night to receive you.' He hesitated and then said carefully, 'You must beware of my Lord Erestor. He is very powerful and fearsome.'

Behind him, Legolas frowned as he pulled on his boots. Berensul's description did not match the man he had met and who had given him the tunic and hose. He checked that his knife was still in the sheath in his boot despite Berensul's warnings. He did not think anyone else would notice the knives and he could not walk about anywhere without a single weapon. It felt...naked. He began to buckle on his greaves but then stopped and dropped them back on the bed. They would attract attention.

'The girls say that he becomes a wolf at night,' Berensul turned back to Legolas and said mockingly. He grinned and Legolas gave an uncertain laugh. 'Do not look into his eyes.'

He led Legolas down the sweep of steps and out onto a wide terrace above the loud, rushing Bruinen. They paused and watched the pale sun rise above the mountains. The mountains looked beautiful now, a silver mist lay across them like a veil, but the snow-clad peaks rose high above and the rising sun caught on the snow.

The valley was wide and lush, and in Autumn the leaves of the many trees had turned gold and fluttered down onto the grass like showers of gold. All around them was the sound of water, the river rushed below and there were waterfalls spilling over high cliffs, foaming into deep green pools, rushing over rocks and swirling in rivulets around the lovely gardens. They left their footprints in the dew, scattered over the lawns like silver drops and stared at the glittering cobwebs looped over the roses. Legolas felt peaceful, calm like he never did in the Wood, even when resting in the boughs of the great oaks around the stronghold. He wondered why that was. He thought then that perhaps no weapon was ever needed after all.

He could stay here, he thought, and rest. Let his heart soak in the peace. He listened to the birds singing even though it was Autumn and they should be quieter.

'Come. He will be waiting.' Berensul pulled at his sleeve and Legolas turned from the sight and followed Berensul through a cloister of cool arches where water ran along a channel cut in the stone and ended in a fountain. A Man passed them. His hair was dark and he was bearded. A great fur-lined cloak was wrapped around him and upon his back was a heavy round shield and at his waist a great hunting horn. He glanced up at Legolas as he passed. His eyes were wary and guarded and Legolas felt a sudden empathy.

'Here.' Berensul rapped sharply on the door. 'Remember what I said, don't look into his eyes!' And having knocked, he turned and seemed to flee.

There was nothing, no sound from within so he steeled himself, scolded himself for the silliness of Berensul's fairy tales and he knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing. He knocked again even louder and this time he heard a voice within calling him to enter, a little impatiently. He was about to open the door when it was thrown open and an Elf stood there, tall, imposing and looking very irritated. Unable to help himself, Legolas looked up into sharp eyes, hawkish, but such a light brown as to be almost amber. Legolas stared open-mouthed for it did indeed give the Elf a faintly vulpine air and he narrowed his amber eyes as though he were used to the effect he had, a predatory smile that showed his white teeth. Legolas felt for a moment like a sheep that had strayed too far. Definitely not the Elf from the wine cellar, he thought. Nothing about this Elf reassured him. His long black hair was tied back severely but not braided, it looked strangely antique, a long horsetail of black hair, cheekbones like knives. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an elegant tunic embroidered with silver thread, and fine velvet hose, fine suede boots. Legolas could well believe the tales Berensul had told him.

'Well?'

Legolas bowed slightly and said, 'My Lord Erestor?' When he lifted his eyes to the elven Lord's face he saw that the Elf watched him with a smile of wry amusement.

'I see you have heard the tales,' he said, a fine black eyebrow lifted sardonically. 'They are all true.' He stood back and gestured Legolas to enter. There were some wide shallow steps that led up from the cloister and into a wide room with an elegant and sweeping view of the Valley and its golden trees. Graceful arching windows floor to ceiling were thrown open and the cold fresh mountain air filled the room and there was the sound of water.

'You are from Mirkwood,' Erestor said as he led Legolas into the room. He carefully picked up scrolls from where they were piled up on chairs. There were books everywhere and scrolls, both unrolled and tightly sealed. 'You have crossed the mountains on your own. That in itself is a feat.' His voice was unexpectedly rich and mellow, the voice of a bard and poet, thought Legolas staring in turn and confused by the sudden fleeting impressions, but he did not dare to lean in and listen to the Song of the Elf for he thought it would be deemed far too presumptuous.

Erestor pulled out a tall-backed beech chair from an elegant desk, also of beech, where inks of different colours in glass bottles like jewels were lined up neatly. Ancient books were piled up carefully on the desk. Erestor sank into the chair and steepled his long, elegant fingers. He surveyed Legolas for a moment, just enough to unnerve him with those strange amber eyes but Legolas had learned at his father's knee how to withstand such scrutiny and bore it well, he thought.

'That rascal Berensul tells me you have messages from Thranduil,' Erestor said smoothly and Legolas flinched. Had Berensul told Erestor everything? He racked his brains for what else he might have said unguardedly and wondered if Berensul's only motive was to find things out. He hoped that was not the case but he remembered too how skillful Berensul was and how quick he was to approach him...how easily Legolas himself had fallen. He cringed. Laersul would never have given in and Thalos would have given in but said nothing. Legolas closed his mouth now, determined that at least now he would say nothing...He wondered if the one bit of information he should have given was his name. because he suddenly felt sure that Erestor would know that too.

'He tells me you are looking for Mithrandir.' The elven Lord looked carefully at Legolas as if waiting for a reply. But when there was none forthcoming, he gave a slight smile. 'I will let him know that you are here. You will have messages of course for my Lord Elrond too,' he said invitingly but Legolas was determined now and said nothing.

There was a moment where each stared at the other and Legolas felt himself flinch a little. Erestor may have noticed because he inclined his head as if acknowledging his victory and said, 'You are not Alagos.'

Well that was true, thought Legolas so he nodded. 'Alagos was injured,' he said, trying to look helpful.

'Ah, I thought as much. He would not easily give up his title of King's messenger,' Erestor said smoothly, but Legolas thought he detected an undercurrent of amusement. 'Then what is your name, child.'

Legolas blinked slowly and said as innocently as he could, 'My name is Legolas,' knowing it sounded as evasive as it was.

Erestor waited. A slight smile played about his lips and Legolas was reminded of a cat playing with a mouse, but that was too obvious...He had seen a wolf once, trotting nonchalantly after its prey, just watching, waiting for it to fall, to trip... that was how he felt now. He swallowed. Berensul was right. Erestor was a wolf. No escape now.

'Legolas Thranduillion,' he said, his mouth going a little dry, but the Elf lord's eyes face remained expressionless.

'Legolas Thranduillion,' he said slowly and he gave Legolas a piercing stare that reduced him to a child who has been caught stealing cakes. Legolas bit his lip. 'Ah. So not a simple messenger then, my lord.' Erestor inclined his head slightly.

'In the Wood, my lord,' said Legolas, trying to assemble some dignity, 'I am no lord. Nor do we see lineage as worthy of note. In the Wood I am simply Legolas Thranduillion, an archer.'

'Nevertheless, in the Valley,' said Erestor carefully, 'we do see lineage as worthy of note. Here,' he said emphatically, 'you are a lord. And we will treat you as one.' It was almost a threat.

Legolas lifted his chin. 'It will not be necessary and hardly worth it, my lord. I intend to deliver my message to Mithrandir and then leave. I will of course pay the Wood's respects to my Lord Elrond and then depart.'

Erestor rose slowly, majestically from the tall backed chair. It was impressive and probably well rehearsed, thought Legolas nervously, but that only made it worse. He stood looked down sternly at Legolas. 'You may think that arrangement acceptable, but I assure you it is not. I will of course have the son of the Elvenking moved to more suitable quarters.' He strode quickly to a second door that Legolas had not even noticed and threw it open. Legolas glimpsed another Elf sitting at a desk, head bent and a black feathered quill scratching at a parchment. He looked up at Erestor's approach, who spoke to him quickly and quietly. The Elf threw a startled glance past Erestor at Legolas and then back up to Erestor. He nodded briefly and then rose to his feet and disappeared.

'There. All done. Your belongings will be moved to more suitable quarters, in the guest and family wing of course. Ceredir and Berensul will be reprimanded.' There was a slight glint in the elven Lord's amber eyes that unnerved Legolas even more.

He shook his head in distress. 'Please my lord, that will not be necessary I assure you. The kitchen Elves have been more than hospitable and treated me very fair. They showed great kindness to a stranger, a mere messenger,' he said desperately. 'It says much that I had such a welcome in the Last Homely House.' He wondered if he would have had quite the welcome if he had declared himself.

Erestor paused then for a moment. He was still on his feet, looking down at Legolas whose fair face was turned up and beseeching. Something flickered in his amber eyes then and his face changed subtly. He licked his dry lips as if considering and then said, 'Very well. Since you speak so fair of the kitchen, I will not turn them out to fend for themselves in the Wild. This time.'

Though he spoke severely, Legolas was skilled at reading even the stoniest countenance, and he thought he detected a glint of amusement. Erestor tilted his head considering and Legolas knew it was not an invitation, or at least he hoped not because he would not have dared refuse. 'It is certainly fortuitous that you are here, and that we have a representative of Mirkwood,' he said and Legolas did not dare correct the slight to the Woodland Realm. 'You must join the Council that my lord has called.'

Legolas' heart fell. A council! Thranduil would be furious, and kill him. Slowly. Alagos was probably already dead at Thranduil's hands, and that only left him. But he did not think there was any way out. He resolved to sit tight and keep his mouth firmly closed, say nothing. Nothing at all. Find Mithrandir and then scurry back to his room until another group left to cross the mountains. The Dwarves perhaps...

Erestor leaned back in his high-backed chair, looking pleased now that he had decided Legolas would be joining the Council. 'If you had been a mere messenger, it would not be proper for you to join the Council. Certainly you could not speak for Thranduil. But as his son, you are more than capable of speaking for him. Indeed, I have heard of your diplomacy and skill.'

Melkor's balls, thought Legolasbut what he said, rather faintly, was, 'I think you mean my brother, Thalos. He is a skilled diplomat.' And Elbereth knows I wish he were here now, he added mentally.

'Ah. Then you are the warrior who led the battle with your father at Erebor?' said Erestor, looking even more impressed.

'No. That is my oldest brother, Laersul,' he said trying not to look miserable.

Erestor was, Legolas thought miserably, far too refined and intelligent to say more but he could almost hear that mellow, silky voice say Ah, then you are the stupid one, we hear that Thranduil would rather send his horse to a council than send you.

Instead Erestor said, almost kindly 'Then you must be his youngest. Too young yet for your reputation to reach us.' Legolas hung his head and so missed the look of pained empathy on the councillor's face. 'Come. The Council will begin soon and perhaps you will be able to give Mithrandir your message and then stay and learn what has been happening in the world beyond Mirkwood.'

Legolas bit his tongue again. This was the third time. But Erestor had been gracious enough at his small deception and he wished to be on good terms so he followed the councillor out of the room and down a smooth flight of stone steps that swept down onto yet another terrace that led to a wide lawn. Legolas had seen a lawn before but it seemed so odd a thing, to keep the grass so short that nothing could live in it or grow but the grass itself. He wondered if Elrond kept his horses on it but there was no dung anywhere. Except on the roses! he suddenly realised with astonishment as they passed. But he said nothing and simply followed Erestor.

They came to a high garden above the steep banks of the river and the sound of it filled the air. There were the scents of the gardens around them as if Summer yet lingered here in this place of sanctuary and refuge and Legolas realised that he had slowed and that Erestor was waiting for him, a slight smile on his face. 'There is a sheltered place where Elrond keeps council. We will find Mithrandir there.'

Ahead of them was a covered porch, in that it was a terrace that had a roof over it to give shade and shelter. It faced East and so the sun poured over it, the stone was warm and the autumn leaves gold.

He felt the Song flood the clear mountain air, lacing through the arches and colonnades, drifting over the lawns and gardens and in the voice of the river and waterfalls. There was a sense of tremendous power and he remembered the man he had met yesterday, how the blue power seemed to lift him and whirl around him like all the Airs of the world, like he had been snatched up by the wind. For a moment he felt again the overwhelming power that he had felt before, the air swirling around the world, rushing between Sea and Stars, and quickly he stepped back from it before he became overwhelmed. He blinked slowly, his eyes focusing on Erestor's curious face.

A murmur of voices drifted over the gardens and Legolas turned to see that Erestor was watching him with a strange expression on his face. "What do you hear?' the Elf asked in a low voice. 'I have heard that the Woodelves can hear the Song more clearly than any others. Is that what you hear?'

Legolas looked up at him and nodded, a little bewildered at both the question and the power. 'Yes. Do you not hear it?' he asked. Erestor was taller than him by half a head, lean and strong. He stood close and Legolas was aware of his sharp cheekbones, his mouth and the intensity of his power.

'We hear it, in the breath of the world perhaps,' murmured Erestor staring at Legolas with his amber eyes. Legolas felt all the weight of the Elf's years, all his wisdom, hard won and paid for by long years in exile, in banishment, and finally in the restless peace of Imladris. 'We hear it in the cry of the gull or the wash of the sea. What do you hear?'

Legolas pondered but he could not find the words. It was in his veins and in the air he breathed. 'It is...it just is,' he said a little helplessly and Erestor nodded in understanding.

'Yes,' he said.'I have been told that. Long ago in Eregion, and once before, in Nargothrond. Finrod was glorious.'

Legolas knew he gaped but he had no time to ask for at that moment a single clear bell rang out to signal the Council was to begin.

o0o0o

tbc

 

There are some utterly gorgeous pictures made by Mienpies on another site. If you would like to see them, please leave a comment and I 'll get in touch. z.


	8. The Councill of Elrond

Note: There are references to the Silmarillion in this chapter but they are Erestor's back story and you do not need to know all of them. Suffice to say that Erestor is old, has been around a bit, and has been associated with the House of Feanor as well as Elrond.

Beta: Gloriously wonderful Anarithilien who keeps me on the right track!

And thanks to Spiced Wine for her unflagging help and expertise in drawing out Erestor's story.

Warnings for this chapter: Slash implied.

Chapter 8: The Council of Elrond

A low mist lay over the valley dissolving the skyline and distance into one.

Legolas followed Erestor's tall figure across the dew-scattered lawns above the rushing Bruinen and below the sounds of the river was a murmur of voices. They took some shallow steps up to a large porch that was positioned on the terrace above the steep banks of the Bruinen, looking east. Erestor waited for him and gestured with his hand that Legolas should step forwards. There were a number of Elves already sitting on the stone benches that were placed around the edges of the terrace, and the Man he had passed earlier coming out of Erestor's chambers. The Elves were all Noldor, thought Legolas in dismay.

At the farthest end of the porch was the Elf who had surprised him in the cellar and Legolas had a better look at him now in the early morning light. Although his face was ageless as all Elves, his eyes betrayed him; the immense wisdom and sorrow that Legolas had touched the evening before was evident in his grey eyes and when he turned towards Legolas, he felt the same swirl of Air rushing between the Stars and the Sea and thought he seemed weighed down by an immense sorrow.

Beside him sat the most glorious Elf warrior that Legolas thought he had ever seen; the sun seemed to adore him, and even in the pale morning, his hair was shining gold, and his face was impossibly fair. When he turned his keen bright eyes upon Legolas, he seemed both fearless and full of joy.

Legolas knew instantly that this was the legendary Glorfindel and he thought of the line from the song they sang of him in the Wood, that on his brow sat wisdom and strength was in his hand.* There was of course a ruder version of that song too that Galion sang and he tried hard to quash the memory of a very drunk Galion singing it loudly beneath Thranduil's flet; a well-aimed empty flagon had been hurtled from the flet and stopped the song, for a while at least. Unaware of both incident and Legolas' recollection of it, Glorfindel smiled kindly at Legolas who tried to keep his mouth closed for it had dropped open and he knew he gaped like a fish on a riverbank.

There was another Elf too sitting next to them clad in the colours of the Havens, with long black hair and the grey eyes of the Noldor. He did not smile.

Erestor led Legolas forwards. In the shadows was the Man, Aragorn, and Legolas' heart sank further. He could see there was no way out now. And then a deeper rumbling of voices came from behind him and he glanced over his shoulder to see a number of Dwarves had joined them. They nodded and bowed to all assembled, their beards wagging and eyes bright, looked about them and talked loudly. The important Dwarf with the snow-white hair who had opened the door to the Homely House even bowed slightly to Legolas.

Erestor stopped in front of the three Elves. All looked up and the middle one, the man whom Legolas had recognised as being his kindly benefactor caught sight of Legolas and smiled. 'You have found our emissary from Mirkwood, Erestor.' He stood and greeted Legolas with a slight bow and Legolas found himself realising with horror, that this must be Elrond! Mortified he thought how he had stripped off and stood half-naked emptying his boots out into Elrond Half-Elven's wine cellar. Smaug's teeth, how could it get any worse? He hoped the Elf in the colours of the Havens wasn't Cirdan. That was all he needed.

'My...my Lord,' he stammered, blushing furiously.

''An Elf come from Mirkwood to take part in a council of the Wise?' the Elf from the Havens laughed and Legolas frowned for it did not sound well meant. 'I suppose your King has other...'

'Mirkwood? It must have been an interesting journey,' Glorfindel interrupted smoothly and was looking at him with interest. He rose to his feet and took Legolas' arm, steering him to a seat. 'We were wondering if you travelled with the Dwarves.'

'No!' he said rather more loudly than he meant, and the Dwarves looked around. The most important Dwarf with the snow-white hair and heavy gold chain turned and looked inquiringly at Legolas. 'No, I mean... Not really,' Legolas said quickly. 'We merely arrived at the same time.' Glorfindel looked politely amused and Legolas blushed furiously.

'Are you not a servant here?' asked the Dwarf astonished. 'I thought...'

'No!' said Legolas again, slightly louder and feeling slightly hotter. 'I am a messenger, from the Woodland Realm. I have a message for Mithrandir,' he said, wishing for all he was worth that Mithrandir would appear.

'He will be here soon,' Elrond said kindly and Legolas felt as if a balm had been poured over him. Slow peace washed over him, like warmth, and his trouble was soothed away. It seemed that he was not the only one for a contemplative quiet fell upon them all.

And then a small figure stepped onto the porch, and looked about himself bemused. Behind him was Mithrandir and two other Hobbits, one of which Legolas recognised as Bilbo Baggins, though he was much changed and now seemed bent over with some great care.

At their entrance, Elrond rose and all eyes turned to him. Erestor discreetly shoved Legolas to a seat and inclined his head meaningfully while Elrond turned to the assembled company. His wise face was kind and he looked suddenly as though he felt the weight of all his lineage and his sorrowful history and Legolas felt his troubles dwindle before the ancient sorrow of Elrond and his house.

'Here my friends,' said Elrond slowly, seriously, 'is the Hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither though greater peril or on an errand more urgent.'

Legolas stared. What peril could this Hobbit have come through that was so immense that it merited this council of all the Peoples of Arda? For it seemed to him that the Song was amplified and he knew that all these people were supposed to be here, and that included him. He caught Mithrandir's eye then and the blue eyes twinkled and the Wizard gave him a nod in greeting. Legolas tried to keep his gaze and frowned and willed him to understand, but to his consternation Mithrandir looked away in what Legolas thought was almost willful misunderstanding.

And so he missed the fact that Elrond was making introductions and the next thing he knew everyone was looking at him expectantly and Elrond was saying, 'Legolas, a messenger from his father, Thranduil King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood.'

Legolas almost jumped up but Elrond moved smoothly on. 'Here is Boromir, a man of the South. He arrived in the grey morning and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered.'

But then, what was said over the hours that followed, reduced him to a state of stunned fear. For the Hobbit had the One Ring, Isildur's Bane, and he had been pursued by the Nazgul and now brought it here to Elrond. Legolas listened attentively to Gloin's story of Khazad-dum; he remembered something in his lessons once long ago about Dwarves living there and he thought his father might need to know but he was still reeling from the news of the One Ring.

Bilbo had had it when he was hiding in the stronghold, he thought in horror. The Ring had been there, in his home. Only now when he had heard all of the story and how Gollum was involved did he realise just how great a task the Wood had been given. Aragorn had just spoken, saying that he for one was glad that the Elves of Mirkwood had Gollum safely in their keeping and Legolas knew that he had to speak for he could not keep silent now.

Slowly he rose to his feet, heart pounding and he felt himself hot and flushed. Elrond's kind eyes turned to him as he rose and he felt the weight of the whole council's regard. 'The tidings I was sent to bring must now be told,' he said ashamed and distressed for he knew this would bring trouble to the hearts of the Council and he had heard what trouble there was already on the world. 'They are not good but only here have I Iearned how evil they may seem to this company. Smeagol who is now called Gollum, has escaped.'

Aragorn made a sound of disgust. 'Escaped? That is ill news indeed. We shall all rue it bitterly I fear. How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?'

The words were bitter and spoken in haste, Legolas knew, but he turned in swift defence of his home.

'Not through lack of watchfulness. But perhaps through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others and that more is known of our doings than we would wish.' For it had not been Anglach's fault, nor his, and he tried not to think of the nervous and suspicious glances between the warriors, or how they had treated some of the Woodmen in the days after the attack. 'We guarded this creature day and night at Gandalf's bidding, much though we wearied of the task.' He threw a look towards Gandalf thinking he might at least intervene and save him this scathing humiliation but the Wizard was silent, his brows drawn together and his head slightly bowed, listening. 'But Gandalf bade us hope still for his cure and we had not the heart to keep him forever under the earth in his dungeon where he would fall back into his black thoughts...'

He told his tale briefly, not embellishing it for he did think he could do justice anyway. And in that moment all he could see was the terrible plunging pursuit into the southern part of the Wood...

...Laersul's cries urging them on, recklessly, foolishly almost and himself standing amongst the twisted trees, bow taut, arrow drawn against his cheek, fingers ready to fly open...and ahead of him, a crowd of Orcs jeering and calling, too many. And suddenly between them he just glimpsed Naurion, his face white and screaming, his eyes squeezed shut, and a glint of steel caught...there was a spear being shoved slowly, slowly into the Elf's twitching body but not quite enough to kill and his hands clasped and opened and clasped and the steel shaft thrust in and out like a rape...There was a clear shot...and a cry and Laersul going down under a seething mass of Orcs like black beetles swarming and there was cold, freezing his scalp...

He hoped it was enough that none would now question him for he did not wish to speak of it further, the image of Anglach in his last moments, the gurgling blood in his throat and the slow glazing of eyes that had shared so much with Legolas. He hoped the tears that had scalded his face as he held Anglach would not fall now... And perhaps they saw that in his face for no one questioned again that the Woodelves had failed in their trust. Even Aragorn was silent.

He sat down heavily and looked at his hands. Mithrandir told the last part of the story then and when Legolas raised his head at the evidence of Saruman's betrayal, which had long been the belief of Thranduil, he caught Erestor's strange amber eyes on him. The counsellor did not look away but inclined his head and gave a slight smile.

That kindness almost undid Legolas and he had to look away. He did not speak again though he listened carefully to the debate about what to do with the Ring. And he did not ask why they simply did not ask one of the Eagles to fly over Oroduin and drop the Ring into it, because he thought they would have considered it if it was not foolish and he was determined not to make any mistakes that would shame his father and his home.

When Elrond decided that the Ring should be taken to Mordor in secret, he thought it would be Glorfindel and Mithrandir who would take it, and maybe Erestor for he had hidden power too. So when the noon bell rang and Frodo stood and said that he would take the Ring, Legolas stared at the Hobbit with absolute respect and remembered that his father had always spoken most highly of Bilbo who had exceeded all the expectations of Elves, Men and Dwarves and as he realised that, he knew in his heart that this was right.

0o0o

Legolas had escaped the Council as soon as Elrond ended it and slid between the pillars of the porch easily, evading everyone and walking quickly back into the house. He had been a little bit lost but finally found his room at the top of the house. It was empty. The bed stripped and his belongings gone.

He sat for a moment on what he thought of as 'his' bed, head in his hands. It hurt still, the telling of his tale, for the grief was still too near and he did not wish to speak of it more. It had been harder than he had ever thought it would be and he thought now how foolish he had been to want to do this and not let Thalos come instead. His brother would have managed it with suavity and persuaded the Council that the Wood had done more than its due, had paid the highest price. Thalos would never have hidden his name for shyness. It was shameful.

There was a scuff of feet on the wooden stair outside and he lifted his head to see Berensul standing there.

'You should have told me,' he said accusingly.

Legolas looked away uncomfortably. 'I know that now. But I thought I would only be here for a day or two at most. I did not think it mattered.'

Berensul gave a disbelieving snort. 'I suppose I should call you your Highness or something now.' In spite of his anger however, Legolas noticed he did not leave or move away.

'No. I am none of those. I am as I told you, Legolas of the Woodland Realm. That is all. I am no Prince of Elves or great Lord. I am the son of my father that is all. I have two older brothers who are far better than me at everything,' he said miserably and heaved a great sigh and hung his head again.

There was a pause and then Berensul said coldly, 'I am to show you your new quarters. Proper ones for the son of the Elvenking of the Northern Elves.'

'Not even my father calls himself King really,' Legolas replied heavily. 'He is the aran. It is more like chief than King but it is too hard to explain to people outside the Wood. And usually we cannot be bothered,' he added.

Berensul said nothing. Then he breathed in and looked away down the stairs. 'Come. I have to show you where you are to sleep. It is in the family's wing.'

Legolas' heart sank. Did that mean he had to have dinner with them and make small talk. He did not think he could. There would be Elrond Half-Elven, Arwen Evenstar, the Sons of Thunder, probably Glorfindel of Gondolin and Erestor of...well, who knew? Mithrandir and him. Oh Manwe's holy wind.

He rose reluctantly and followed Berensul back down the stairs to the wide terraces and lawns as he had earlier and with an equally heavy heart. The room was on a lower floor than the one he had shared with Berensul. And far more luxurious. It had tall windows that were open and looked westwards down the valley. A cold fresh wind blew the sheer drapes and the sunlight gleamed upon the marble floor. Legolas looked around. Everything was elegant, light and airy. There were two further doors leading off the room. His meagre pack was on the huge bed and Berensul was unpacking it for him in stony silence and refused to even look at Legolas.

'Please leave that,' he said, holding out his hand to Berensul appeasingly. 'Forgive me?'

'You should have told me, my lord,' was all Berensul said. Again. Legolas could say nothing and Berensul bowed low and mockingly and left Legolas to his own misery.

It had been worse than he had thought possible. From the moment he had stepped into Imladris to now, he had done nothing but humiliate himself and his father. He felt himself cringe as he thought of Berensul's kindness, the welcome in the kitchen and even Erestor's benign interrogation. Why hadn't he simply told them who his father was? He had no excuse. And it had been Elrond of course who had come across him half-naked in the wine cellar and emptying out his boots. And then Aragorn had poured scorn upon him and he had simply let him with a feeble protest that they had been bid to be kind. And then that damned Dwarf, Gloin, had launched in with the usual complaint against the Woodelves. Not once had Mithrandir had shown any remorse for what had befallen the Wood because of his request - a request that he had made knowing full well brought immense danger to the Wood - and yet had said nothing.

Well, Legolas determined, he had yet to speak properly to Mithrandir. And he would give an accounting to Glorfindel of Anlgach's death, as he had sworn. And then he would leave. Elrond had indicated there would be messages going over the Mountains and though Legolas wanted nothing more than to sneak out of Imladris without having to see another soul, he did not relish another lonely journey over the Mountains. If it was in Aragorn's company, he thought, he would at least have an opportunity to put the Man right about the folk of the Wood.

He did not dare leave the room since it was in the family quarters and he could not bear to see anyone else right now. So he simply toed his boots off his feet and pulled the soft woolen blankets over his head and fell into reverie.

0o0o0

Once, long ago...in Nargothrond perhaps, thought Erestor as he strode through Imladris in search of Mithrandir, he had heard the Song like he heard it earlier that morning standing with Legolas in the garden. Then, it had been a strange ringing Song of the stone city, delved deep, carved and sculpted fair, and with sweeping grandeur. On such a morning as this had been, clear with the pale sun rising over the mountains and the river rushing below...

He sighed. Finrod had been glorious. Nor could he forget the two vibrant, sulky, selfish bastards who had shone and dazzled and betrayed. It was so long ago now and he felt, as he sometimes did, the weight of his years, the weight of all his losses.*

But standing with Legolas on the lawns of Imladris, he had heard Vilya's breath, soft and deep and like some great sleeping beast, or a storm far off in the Mountains but softened and eased in the Valley...rushing between the Stars and the Sea...like the breath of the Sea...

The Sea...

The Sea...it had washed against the bottom of the white cliffs and a bird cried above the sobbing of the children...Had there been a sail far off on the horizon?**

He paused, looking out over the Valley that had become his home, the sanctuary that Elrond had been determined to found, that had become his life too. And now the Ring was here...and Imladris trembled on the brink of disaster. He did not think he could bear seeing Imladris destroyed as Nargothrond had been, as Himring, as Sirion...Imladris was the last Sanctuary.

It was worth dying for.

He frowned at his dark thoughts; why was he suddenly pulled back into the Past? He knew the reason. The One Ring, Ash Nazg, sought all their weakness. It sought the cracks, to further divide them.

At the Council, Erestor had not wanted to see the Ring. He had seen it before on the slopes of Oroduin when Isildur cut it from Sauron's hand and took it himself. Its whisperings and lure wrapped cold black fingers around his heart and fingered its way into his darkest thoughts...He braced himself as it was taken out and the surge of Power was like the Sea.

...A bed, in disarray, sheets pulled off the bed and twisted like it was part of the passion. A long, lithe body lying on his bed, on his side, his back to Erestor but oh, colour and wildness, a wild coil of colour about his body, long blond hair pulled over one shoulder, the muscles of his body tensed and he looked back over his shoulder at Erestor and smiled, blinding, beautiful, seductive...Legolas Thranduillion.

Erestor did not gasp then and he did not now. He had already recognised the temptation, that he was seduced, and that his curiosity was stirred but not his heart. And he did not think he needed Ash Nazg, the Ring, to have this child of the Wood who was naturally curious, already off balance and needing reassurance.

A momentary and fleeting desire. No more. His heart was buried deeper than that...

You will have to do better than that, he said to the Ring.

And it had...

...Eyes like starlight, a thick coil of copper silk hair pulled over one shoulder, he looked back over his shoulder at Erestor and smiled, blinding, beautiful, seductive...Erestor's mouth dry. Scorched by the intensity, his desire...

'One day you will come here for me...' Said with all the confidence of his House.

And he had. Oh, he had and there had been such glory in it...but they were gone. All of them. Ash Nazg could not bring them back. There was nothing it could offer him.

You are nothing, he told Ash Nazg. You are not Bauglir.****

He shook himself. Too long ago, too far away and beneath the waves now, and he could not dwell upon what was Past. For one who had survived the Oath*, Ash Nazg was as nothing.

He turned away then from the view of the Valley stretching away between the Mountains and into the blue distance. He turned away from the view as he turned from the truth.

...For he lied. There was one thing. But he buried it so deep in his heart that he did not admit it even to himself. He did not allow himself to even take out a single memory, buried it deep where none could find it.

He took three steps at a time, striding up the wide stone steps, and narrowly avoided a collision with one of the minstrels, Lindir, so immersed was he in his memories. He did not apologise or bow. Lindir was a useless frippery, as far as Erestor was concerned, who played badly. For he had heard the voices of Finrod and Maglor, and how could anyone come even close?

Erestor threw open a door and peered within. He took three steps across a room, a hallway, leapt down the steps four at a time, thinking that Elladan was a better singer than Lindir, his voice deeper than one would expect when he sang, and resonant. His nature was gentler than his wild and furious brother who would take both those Sons of Thunder to damnation. And there was nothing he, Erestor, could do to stop them.

Amidst the musical patter of the Hobbits' voices was a drift of smoke. Mithrandir lifted his head at Erestor's approach and nodded slightly.

Erestor did not interrupt. The Wizard would know to come. There was much to discuss.

He found himself near the stables. They had returned and he had much to think about and he found himself searching for the black horses of Elrond's sons.

0o0o

At last hunger woke Legolas and he sighed and rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling, which was carved and painted. Of course, he thought grumpily. He could not really just stay here forever, he told himself. He would have to find Mithrandir. And he had vowed that Glorfindel would know of Anglach. He lay, looking upwards and listing in his head what he had yet to do.

The sun had set, the sky blushed pink, and the distant clouds were tinged with gold. Cold mountain air filled the room with the scent of pines and there must have been lavender planted beneath his windows. He felt better for it, and the room was graceful, elegant, just as everything was in Imladris.

Decisively he swung his feet to the floor and pushed himself to his feet. There was no jug of cold water or basin to wash his face so he simply rubbed his face and tidied up his clothes, pulled on his boots and opened the door of the room and went out.

There was a long window facing West at the end of the passage and the sun flooded through, blinding him. He walked hesitantly eastwards towards the wide stone staircase that swirled around and down towards the Hall of Fire when he thought the air shifted and the Song changed. His felt his blood thrum and his heart suddenly pounded in his chest.

His feet faltered and he stopped, leaned against the cold stone.

Was there the scent of snow, clean and cold on the mountains? And high high above he thought he heard an eagle cry... a deep rhythm pounded in his veins, drums beating like a heart, a strong heart, noble, and a crimson light flooded the air around him. Warmth and heat caressed him.

He turned back towards the setting sun and lifted his head to stare at a warrior who strode towards him it seemed out of the setting sun - long raven-black hair like silk worn loose and flowing, he was tall and broad shouldered, a swordsman not an archer, light on his feet and clad in black leather close to his skin. His grey eyes stared straight ahead and he barely registered Legolas, simply strode past, but the light, the air, surged about Legolas and he felt time had slowed and his destiny approached...and passed. He turned, lips parted and eyes wide, staring after the warrior...and the crimson power surged around him, ebbed with his passing and left Legolas breathless and limp.

The warrior turned his head after he had passed as if Legolas had called to him, and his eyes were wide and starlit grey. He stared but he did not stop, and turned away again.

Legolas reached out to steady himself against the stone sill of the window and leaned his forehead against the cold wall, breathing hard. He shook himself and turned, took a step after the glorious figure, and paused. What would he say? What would he do if the warrior paused and listened?

He had lost his nerve and rubbed his eyes and slowly carried on... but he could not lose that image of power striding down he halls of Imladris and he knew then, here was his destiny.

TBC

*Taken from LOTR The Council of Elrond. I have used bits of the descriptions of Elrond and Glorfindel so you may recognise phrases.

Just to exlplain that reference if you do not know the SIlmarillion, Nargthrond - the ancient Elven stronghold/ palace of Fingon. Beren came to Nargothrond seeking help, Finrod went with him on the Quest for the Silmaril to repay his debt. Celegorm and Curufin,* (the sulky bastards as Erestor saw them) who were living in Nargothrond at the time, persuaded (using barely veiled threats related to their Oath to Feanor to recover the Silmarils) most of Nargothrond to stay behind; only ten warriors, headed by one Edrahil, were faithful and came with them. Beneath the Shadowy Mountains they came upon a company of Orcs, and slew them all in their camp. They took their gear and weapons and by the magic of Finrod their own forms and faces were changed to the likeness of Orcs. Thus disguised they came far upon their northward road between Ered Wethrin and the highlands of Taur-nu-Fuin. However the twelve were captured and imprisoned by Sauron on Tol-in-Gaurhoth ("Isle of Werewolves"). Thus befell the contest of Finrod and Sauron. Finrod strove with Sauron in songs of power, and the power of the Elven King was very great but in the end Sauron had the mastery. It is told in the Lay of Leithian and Finrod was slain.

*Elros and Elrond were abandoned by Elwing, their mother- who took flight as a sea bird. The twins were then fostered by the surviving sons of Feanor

*Bauglir- a name given to Morgoth

For those of you who haven't read the Silmarillion, it doesn't matter. You just need to know that Erestor has been around a bit. And he has seen dreadful things and wonderful things.

Last note for LOTR geeks: I know Cirdan had a beard, I want to show how little Legolas really knows of other realms and history. The 'less wise' referred to what was valued by the Noldor and that included 'book learning', Quenya, the history of the Noldor themselves. Legolas knows other things that to HIS people, are valuable. Oropher went over the mountains to escape the Noldor.


	9. The Hall of Fire

Note: There are references to the Silmarillion in this chapter but they are Erestor's back story and you do not need to know any of them. Spiced Wine, who posts on Archive of our Own and www. .de. writes the most sublime fics about Fëanor. I have been so influenced by her writing. She also has written a glorious spin-off of Sons of Thunder, Dark Star, published on both those websites.

Beta: Gloriously wonderful Anarithilien.

 

Warnings: Slash. Oh, and needless, pointless naked Glorfindel, in a bath. Nothing to do with the plot. Totally unnecessary.

Summary: The Council has taken place. Legolas has seen Berensul who is angry and unforgiving. Erestor has found Mithrandir who was with the Hobbits, to let him know the inner circle is meeting once again to talk through what they now know - that has just finished. Elrohir has just passed Legolas.

 

Chapter 9: The Hall of Fire

Legolas ran lightly down the steps and looked first one way, then the other for the glorious warrior who had passed and left him light-headed and breathless. But he had gone.

An Elf carrying a small harp hurried along a path below the terrace where Legolas stood. Another two Elves waited for him, looked behind and called to him in merry voices. Legolas thought of calling out, asking them if they had seen the warrior. But what would he say? And he had already made enough of a fool of himself, By this time the harper had caught up with the other Elves and he pushed between them, throwing each arm around the others; shoulders and steered them away so that they, laughing, made their way across a lawn and disappeared between the shrubs. Their voices and laughter faded into the evening.

A wave of loneliness passed over Legolas then and for a moment he forgot the glorious warrior and thought of home; the last of the harvest would be in now and there would be a feast in the Greenwood, in the clearings amongst the great beeches. Thranduil would wear a crown of autumn leaves and berries and Laersul and Thalos would look up at the same stars he hoped, and think of him. And as the younger Elves leapt the bonfire, perhaps Miriel and Lossar would remember the last time they had gathered around a bonfire, the smell of smoke and the flames leaping. Sighing, he paused beside a still pool and looked up at the sky where a crimson sunset bled into twilight. The calm peace of Imladris was like the chiming of clear bells, of stone and high mountains, and water rushing, flowing, and the air, all the winds of the world, the power of Air ...

He listened silently, and slowly, so he barely noticed, his breathing deepened and slowed, and caught the rhythm of the great soaring notes of the Song. It was so very powerful here. Like watching a storm breaking around him...And as before, the great chords surged and rang about him, pulled on him like the Sea he had never seen. He felt himself dragged beneath its huge rolling notes and was submerged by the great Power...and he took a breath and pulled himself back a little, and then a little more, for last time he had almost drowned in its Power, lost himself in its beauty...

And he breathed again and opened his eyes, let the Song fade back so it was bearable... that when he caught a faint discordant note that ran beneath everything...

He realised the noise had been with him for some time...frowning he tried to remember before...when had it not been in his head? Even as he thought the sound increased and he shook his head, it made him feel slightly off balance and disorientated. He heard it in the background like the whine of a wasp or mosquito, a tempo slightly too fast for his heartbeat, slightly too high for the beat of blood in his ears...it stirred and unsettled him and he looked around him, confused. What was it?

He had been knocked on the head once by an Orc, its great club brought down with ferocity that left him stunned and unable to move. It was like that a little now, but more subtle. He did not think it had been in his head in the Mountains, but then he had been too focused on listening for Orcs. Perhaps it had been the rockfall? Perhaps he had been hit on the head and even now the effect was making itself known. It would explain things, he told himself. He hoped it would not delay his departure though. If messengers were to cross the Mountains tomorrow he would go with them, come what may...

He sat quietly on the stone bench and stared into the still pool. Stars pricked out in the sky and he thought it was so peaceful here if only that ringing in his ears would stop. There was a sudden burst of song and music from somewhere, laughter.

He felt a little gnaw of resentment. Here was peace. No one feared attack. They did not even carry weapons. Yet every day the folk of the Wood were assailed, pushed back, slaughtered. He saw again Anglach's frightened eyes fix and glaze and the gurgle of air forced finally from his throat...that would never happen here. He clenched his jaw. His people were slaughtered while Elrond and his Noldor folk lived easily and safely in this Valley...And laughed at him, thought him a fool. He hung his head, the ringing in his ears grew louder and jangled at his nerves. He was a fool. He had brought shame upon his own people, his father...

It could be different...

Surely not. How could it be different?

If you had a Ring of Power...

But there were only the Three and who knew where those were. He shrugged off the thoughts like a blanket that was too hot.

There was a laugh high up. He turned angrily for the Noldor could well laugh at him, at his failure!

And then he saw Frodo, leaning on a balcony, his back to Legolas and laughing with one of the other Hobbits. A thin stream of smoke coiled from his mouth and then he turned and his wan little face peered down at Legolas, a flash of gold peeped from his shirt and Legolas reeled with shock. The Ring.

He glanced up at the Hobbits again. Frodo had seen him and raised his hand a little hesitantly as if unsure what Legolas' reaction would be. Without a second thought, Legolas gave a wide smile and lifted his hand in greeting. Immediately the ringing eased and he felt like a yoke had been lifted from his shoulders. Frodo looked surprised for a moment and then his own smile broadened. Almost immediately someone pulled at Frodo's sleeve and he looked away.

Legolas sat watching the Hobbits for a moment and then turned away himself, feeling that sudden pang of loneliness and homesickness again. Unlike the Hobbits, he didn't know anyone here and it was all just a bit too different to be comfortable. Everything was a bit too sleek and polished, luxurious and safe...He laughed at himself then. Too safe! And the resentment he had felt a moment ago vanished. It was good to know that somewhere was a sanctuary, for folk like the valiant Hobbits.

'It is good to meet a fellow traveller,' a voice came from his right, and the Man, Boromir of Gondor, stepped from the shadows where he had been standing. 'I have come a great distance too,' he continued and came to stand beside the bench where Legolas sat, as if he had been waiting for him.

It took Legolas aback for he had not known he was watched. He smoothed his hands over his hair a little self-consciously and wondered how long Boromir had been standing there, whether he had seen Legolas caught up in the Song. And if he did, what had he thought?

Legolas glanced at him sideways but the Man was looking up at the balcony where the Hobbits were gathered. He was silent for a while and then he said, 'Is it not strange that Isildur's Bane should fall into the hands of a Halfling?' Boromir shook his head in wonder. 'And it was in the Halls of your King for a while.'

Legolas did not speak, for it had crossed his mind too. How had they not known? He remembered again how Galion had never quite believed Bilbo's story of hiding unseen in their Halls...

But Boromir interrupted his thoughts again. 'Do you go to the Hall of Fire? There is story-telling and music I hear.'

Legolas realised suddenly that he had been almost discourteous and where Boromir was making an effort to make conversation, to be friendly, he had not uttered a single word. So he shook himself and remembered the manners that his father had drummed into him. 'Forgive me,' he said with a slight bow. 'Yes. I had thought to listen to the singing and Mithrandir will be there. I have to speak to him before I leave.'

'That will not be soon surely?' asked Boromir. 'Will you not help to ensure that the Ringbearer leaves safely, and in secret?'

For the first time Legolas thought beyond his own desire to go home. He looked up at Boromir and studied the Man's face with interest. He was tall for a Man and broad. His shorn hair was dark and his eyes grey, he looked a little like Aragorn. He had the same look of command, and was used to being obeyed, a soldier, thought Legolas and relaxed. He could understand that.

'For my part I would see the Ringbearer safe. I will accompany him south if that is what he wishes,' said Boromir. 'My journey lies that way and I would see this done properly if this is what we are to do.'

Legolas found himself impressed with the Man's nobility and he considered for a moment the danger that Frodo faced the moment he set foot out of the Valley. And he wondered if he should not offer his help too if it were wanted.

'You will do this though you spoke against it in the Council?' Legolas watched him and the Man fidgeted a little. 'Have you changed your mind?'

'No. I do think it is a gift, but I am a Man of deeds, not thoughts,' Boromir laughed self-deprecatingly and Legolas liked him even more for that. 'So I will bow to the wisdom of those better and wiser than me,' he said.

Legolas smiled widely and the Man blinked. 'Then you and I are of an accord,' he said. "I am not one of the Wise either and it occurred to me that it would be easier for one of the Eagles to take it and drop it into Mount Doom. But if Elrond and Mithrandir say this is a better way, who am I to question it?'

'You are a warrior too, of your Realm.' Boromir joined Legolas on the stone bench, and leaned back to stretch out his legs. He was not as tall as Legolas and much heavier, stockier, but Legolas thought he was probably a handsome Man.

'You should ride out in the morning with those of us who would clear the way if we can for the Ringbearer,' Boromir continued and although Legolas thought it strange that he did not use Frodo's name, he agreed that it seemed craven to abandon the Hobbit when there was so much danger ahead of him. Perhaps he could in some small way, lessen that.

'Do you leave in the morning? I will go with you if I am needed or can be useful,' he said and he thought it might too in some small way, recompense for his poor tidings.

'Of course you will be,' Boromir glanced sideways at him and then turned his gaze back to the darkening Valley. 'How can you not be? You fight the enemy every day as we do in my city.'

Legolas felt a sudden kinship. 'I am better amongst the trees hunting, or fighting. I am quite useful there my father says.' He smiled and a sudden wrench of homesickness twisted his stomach and he wanted to go home. 'I am not very good at councils,' he admitted.

Boromir laughed softly and there was genuine warmth. 'The same is said of me. I am a captain and amongst my men I am happiest. And my brother is by far the wiser of us, and the skilled diplomat.'

Legolas smiled. 'I have two brothers and both of them would have managed any of this a hundred times better than I,' he said fondly. 'My brother Thalos is renowned for his diplomacy. He could win silk off a spider! And my eldest brother, Laersul, is a warrior of great renown. He stood with our father at Erebor and led the battle.'

Boromir hesitated and then he looked at Legolas. 'I think you were treated hard by the council,' he said quietly. Legolas looked down. 'It is no shame to have suffered attack when you think you are safe within your own walls. You lost lives. Some of your own men, I think.' He paused and looked out over the Valley that stretched below them between the Mountains. 'I have lost friends too.' He turned and looked at Legolas smiling warmly. 'You acquit yourself well I think. You spoke well, you told us the horror without the detail, which none needed by that time. You made me at least, see that you have paid a price indeed for Gandalf's friendship.'

There was a burst of music and laughing from the open doors of the Hall of Fire and both turned their faces towards it for a moment, then looked back. Legolas saw how the Man's face had strange deep lines in the skin, on the cheeks and a crinkling around the eyes. Between his brows two deeper lines were set and he caught himself staring in fascination. He smiled widely and the Man's eyes looked dazzled for a moment.

Legolas shook himself. 'Come, let us go in and drink together, and hear the songs of Imladris for they are said to be fair minstrels, and I have yet to find Master Bilbo and pass on my father's greetings.'

So they pushed their way into the Hall where folk were already drinking and making merry. Loud, deep laughter came from the centre of the room and Legolas saw that the Dwarves had already settled in, taking most of the carved chairs. There were serving Elves rushing to fill the great tankards, to bring them wide platters of delicacies, and the Hobbits were sitting with the Dwarves. The fires seemed to roar in the Dwarves' presence, glowing on their faces and gleaming in their beards. They took up a great deal more room than their size suggested they should, thought Legolas. He shook his head, for that tinny noise suddenly surged in his ears and then subsided abruptly. He thought he should find a healer before he began the journey back. Was not Elrond the greatest of healers? But he could not bother so great a lord for so tiny an ailment.

There were harps playing and different voices in various parts of the Hall. There seemed to be many people here and Boromir stayed at his elbow.

Household Elves moved between the groups, pouring wine and passing plates of delicacies. Legolas saw that Elemé was near a table, leaning over and pouring ale into the tankard of one of the Dwarves, whose chestnut beard twitched as he talked. As Elemé tipped the heavy jug, it wobbled in her hand and for a moment it looked like she would drop it or spill ale over the Dwarf, but the Dwarf lifted his square hand and gently, gently steadied her. Legolas saw her look at him with sudden wonder, meeting the Dwarf's dark eyes and smiling. He bowed gallantly and took the heavy flagon from her and set it down on the floor. Legolas could not hear what he said to Elemé but she dipped her head and dropped a little curtsey to him. He inclined his head slightly so he could see the Dwarf better; he sat beside the important Dwarf with the heavy gold chain and had the same look of him about the eyes so Legolas thought he might be a relative. But then he was distracted by the way Elemé shifted and as she turned to serve another guest, her long dark hair gleamed in the candlelight and her gown caught on something and was pulled suddenly tight over her breasts and thighs for a moment. And then she pulled it free and it dropped around her again.

He knew he was staring because she glanced up as though she felt his eyes upon her and she smiled.

He smiled in return and inclining his head towards Boromir, murmured, 'Excuse me my lord, there is someone I must speak to.' Boromir made a noise that Legolas took to be understanding and made his way through the throng towards Elemé. She moved ahead of him, consciously swaying her hips he knew, and he smiled, watching her long hair falling down her back. And then he saw Berensul stop and speak to her. His green eyes flicked up to Legolas and hardened; he said something to Elemé in a low voice and Legolas saw her shrug and glance over her shoulder at him. He looked away then, uncomfortably and unsure of himself suddenly. Was Berensul never going to forgive him? And was he poisoning the rest of Imladris against him?

A tinny ringing started in his ears again and he frowned. It was distracting. And irritating. It made him feel impatient and angry. Who did Berensul think he was? Suddenly he had had enough. He would stop this.

He strode towards Berensul, pushing between the crowds assuredly until Berensul saw him and looked up, met his eyes and for a moment it was he who looked uncertain. Then hard resentment came down in his eyes again and as Legolas approached he turned to Legolas, unsmiling, cold.

'My lord?' he said and bowed, but there was no respect there and Legolas knew he was mocking.

Concern flickered across Elemé's lovely face but she said nothing. Berensul's mouth was a hard thin line, lips pressed close together and Legolas frowned.

'What is your pleasure, my lord?' Berensul said again and Legolas felt his unflinching insistence and dropped his gaze. This was not how he wanted it to end, for he remembered the passion and desire, and Berensul's yielding body and full lips. He felt a twitch of desire in his groin and lust pooled in his belly.

'Berensul.' Elemé lay her hand on Berensul's arm but he shook her off and gave her such a look that she fled.

'Have you really no forgiveness in your heart, Berensul?' Legolas said quietly so no other could hear. The Elf said nothing but turned slightly so he almost, but not quite, had his back to Legolas. An Elf standing closest to them glanced at them curiously but when Legolas looked at him, his fury rising, the Elf's eyes widened and he looked away. And when Berensul ignored him and went as if to leave, Legolas put out his hand and held him in a grip more used to knives and bows.

'Do you wish to dishonour me before my House?' Berensul whispered furiously. 'You have already shamed me.' Legolas felt his insides curl at the coldness but there was a fleeting expression on Berensul's face. Of hurt and regret and anger.

He did not know what to say and Berensul said nothing either. There was, after all, a limit to his guilt; in the Wood this would have been forgiven and he wondered that it seemed to burn so in the other's heart. And other eyes were drawn towards them now and Legolas felt the heat rise in his face.

Berensul's lip lifted in a curl of a sneer and something snapped in Legolas. He had had enough. He drew himself tall and thinned his mouth, eyes snapping green fire of his own and had he known it, the image of his father.

'Then you will attend me,' he said. 'Now.' He did not care particularly that he shouldered his way past a number of surprised Elves, nor did he care much that Berensul muttered angrily at him as he strode from the hall and out into the cold night air.

It was scented with lavender and mint and camomile, even this late in the year, and frost that came down from the mountains on a drift of air.. .and for a moment he thought he heard an eagle cry and a thrum of blood rushed through his ears. Almost he stopped. Almost he stopped to listen for Song thrilled through his veins and nearly sent him running, searching, up the wide stone steps, through bowers of fading roses ... but he did not for at that moment, Berensul caught up with him and pulled his arm, pulled him round to face him furiously.

'What are you doing?' Berensul demanded. 'How dare you command me!' He caught up with Legolas and grabbed at his shoulder, pulling him round.

Legolas turned and squaring his shoulders, faced Berensul. They were of a height and he was glad he could look Berensul in the eye now. But when he looked, he saw hurt and pride in those green eyes and instead of speaking he grasped Berensul firmly by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall and kissed him. Long and tenderly.

At last he felt Berensul soften and he pulled back. 'I am sorry,' he said, looking into his eyes and holding his gaze earnestly.

Berensul looked down. He did not pull away and Legolas took heart and leaned in closer. 'I did not think. If I had known what would happen, I would have told you. I did not think it mattered,' he said earnestly. 'I only expected to be here for one, perhaps two nights and then leave.' And when Berensul did not turn from or pull away he leaned in closer again and rested his cheek against Berensul's. Then he turned his face slightly to press his lips against the warm cheek and nudged him so he turned too and could press his mouth against Berensul's. 'Forgive me,' he murmured. 'I cannot bear this to still be between us.'

Berensul sighed and let his forehead drop to Legolas' shoulder.

'Tell me you forgive me,' Legolas said softly, more insistently.

Berensul finally drew back, but still he would not look Legolas in the eye. 'Perhaps you should stay longer, get to know me better.'

'Then I am forgiven?' Legolas asked. He breathed in relief, it did not sit well with him to have hurt anyone, least of all one who was kind. 'And I would like to know you better,' he said earnestly. At that Berensul finally looked at him and smiled.

'You have bewitched me,' said Berensul like he meant it. 'I cannot think of anything else.'

For a moment Legolas hesitated for he did not wish to break Berensul's heart but he looked into the sparkling, lively green eyes that were no longer hard and icy. There was no lovelorn yearning in those eyes, just lust, and Legolas laughed breathlessly and pulled Berensul around so it was Legolas now who leaned against the wall and was glad for it was cold against his hot skin. He pulled Berensul in for a kiss and Berensul let his hand fall and pressed it against Legolas' crotch. Biting his lip at the instant surge of desire, Legolas felt himself swell and burgeon, filling. He gripped the other Elf's arms and pulled him in deeper, slid his hand down over Berensul's hip and felt the curve of his buttock beneath his tunic. Berensul smelled of clean linen and the sandalwood soap he had used himself earlier.

'You like that...' Berensul murmured and then shifted so the pressure changed, the sharpness, the sensation. 'And that?' He leaned in against Legolas' neck and his hot breath was on his skin. 'I know you like this...' He turned his head so he could trace his tongue up Legolas' neck to just below his ear and Legolas heard himself gasp and his breathing grow heavier. He moved his hips and pulled Berensul even closer so Berensul's hand was harder against him and he tilted his head so he could kiss Berensul more deeply.

'Do you want to take me now? Here?' whispered Berensul and Legolas let his head fall back against the wall, half closed his eyes and nodded.

'I do, but ...' Legolas opened his eyes, frustrated and wanting. He reached out to grasp Berensul's hand, to pull him back. 'We should not. It is too much of a risk. You said that there are many who would mind and surely your place here would be at risk?'

Berensul let his long dark hair fall over Legolas' chest, mingle with Legolas' own long blond hair. 'I do not care. It will be exciting.' He smiled captivatingly and Legolas shook his head and bit his own lip for there was ripple of desire in his belly and excitement.

'And if we are seen?' Legolas asked with barely concealed lust and all reason flying on the wind. He had forgotten Esgaroth, forgotten all his indiscretion and Thranduil would surely never find out?

Berensul smiled again. 'Come then, into the shadows.'

Sudden sharp footsteps approached. They both started for an Elf came striding down the wide stone steps, his long night-silk hair flowed around him, loose, unbraided, to his waist and his sable cloak billowed from his shoulders like a storm. The air thrummed and Legolas felt his skin tingle like lightning had passed over him. He stared as the warrior passed, and as he had before, he felt his breath catch and blood surge.

The warrior strode past and as he did he glanced at them both, first at Berensul and then a long look at Legolas. He nodded cursorily, unsmiling, and did not stop.

'Who is that?' asked Legolas breathless, heart beating wildly in his chest so surely Berensul must hear it.

'That is Elrohir Elrondion.' Berensul looked away and his face was troubled.

'One of the Sons of Thunder?' Legolas asked, staring after him. Of course he should have known for the likeness to Elrond was startling, but he had not seen it before, too swept away by the presence, the glory of him to have noticed.

'That is what the Orcs of the Mountains call them,' Berensul said a little curtly but Legolas was too lost in wonder to notice why he did not speak proudly of the sons of his Lord.

'Every warrior of the Wood has heard of them,' Legolas stared after Elrohir. He touched his lips slightly where Berensul had kissed him but the desire that broke over him like a wave was not merely from the kiss.

Berensul sighed as if he knew. 'Listen to me,' he said and turned Legolas' face towards him with his finger. 'You are not the first to fall for the Sons of Thunder. And you will not be the last. But you are wasting your time.' He held Legolas' chin between his forefinger and thumb and looked earnestly into his eyes. He shook his head at the besotted, lost look he saw there and tutted. 'My Lord Elrohir has lost all his mirth, all his love, all his joy, and relentlessly he pursues vengeance. He has no lovers and spurns both maids and men... He does not love.'

Berensul paused and glanced after Elrohir anxiously as if afraid of being overheard, and he drew Legolas away from the Hall, to a lawn secluded by tall shrubs and the lingering scent of roses that seemed to drift in the gardens of Imladris, even so late in the year.

He lowered his voice to almost a murmur and Legolas had to lean in close to hear him. 'Be wary of that one. His brother is so courteous and pure, and although a fierce warrior, a healer first. And once, I am told, Elrohir was the same, the light of the Lady Celebrian's life. But when she was brought home so maimed and hurt, all the joy went from this House and the Sons of Elrond went on their quest for vengeance.' He lowered his voice even more and their breath mingled in the cold air. 'Even here there are those troubled by it. They say that Elrohir enjoys the slaughter and that his sword sings.' He paused and looked at Legolas. 'I should not have said so much. It is disloyal. They, the family, have suffered so much. Who can blame him?'

Legolas lifted his head and looked back to where Elrohir had gone. It seemed to him a trail blazed in his wake and he understood. And he did not blame him either.

0o0o0

Elrohir had seen the Mirkwood Elf twice now since he and Elladan had returned from the Wild, their blades notched and blunted and Elrohir's blood still full of bitterness and lust. The news that Isildur's Bane had been found and was now in Imladris had done nothing to gentle him. Instead there was a nervous excitement that fluttered in his chest; the One had been found. It was here. Sauron's one precious thing...it would destroy him were it to be unmade.

It had been uppermost in his thoughts when he saw the Mirkwood Elf.

The first time he saw him Elrohir had not even noticed the Elf until he drew level; the sun had been behind Elrohir and suddenly blazed over the Mirkwood Elf, stroked his long hair to molten gold, lit those strange green eyes. A green-gold light seemed to flood the air so it was like walking through a forest glade where sunlight filtered through the new leaves...beech leaves, Elrohir had thought as he strode away and did not stop but turned his head to stare...he noted how open was his lovely, fearless face; the straight nose, high cheekbones, full sculpted lips and generous mouth.

Now here he was again and this time Elrohir knew it was the youngest son of Thranduil. And he was with Berensul, Elrohir thought with contempt as he approached. It would be no secret what Berensul had been doing with him. They said that in Mirkwood, they were more dangerous, less wise; they said they were promiscuous and indiscreet. Elrohir had noted how close Berensul stood to the Elf, almost touching, the taste of Woodelf still on his mouth no doubt, the feel of his skin still on his fingers...Elrohir's lip curled in contempt; he could almost smell them as he passed, musk and sweat, could almost see them, sweat on gleaming skin, naked, limbs entwined, tongues, hands, long hair tangled pale gold and dark...

Elrohir's fists clenched and did not stop, but he took a longer look at the Elf this time; and the long green eyes widened when they saw him. Elrohir gave but a slight, perfunctory nod that merely acknowledged that he had seen them.

But a flood of lust coiled in his belly and loins and he did not pause, did not stop, his fingers curled into fists and he relentlessly squashed the image of long pale hair tangled with night-silk black, raven and gold...It came too close to the secret fear he stored in his heart.

He felt Aícanaro hiss softly in his sheath and let his hand fall on the sword's pommel. But it did not rest...a thrum through the steel tingled his fingertips and lust uncoiled, unsatisfied, bloody and violent. Even the massacre of goblins they had found in the Wild had not sated the darkness of the blade. Even though Elrohir had impaled a still living goblin upon a lance and left it twitching, gibbering and howling as a warning to others, was Aícanaro as unsatisfied as he?

The armoury door was ajar and light spilled onto the path, silvered already with frost although it was still only autumn. He shoved it open impatiently and saw that Elladan stood there in the candlelight, head bent as he looked over his own sword, Alcarinwë. His long hair fell in a sheet over his shoulders and he was tall and straight, a reflected image of Elrohir himself until Elladan raised his head and smiled. The sweetness of Elladan's smile always took Elrohir aback, for it was so unlike his own unsmiling grimness and his mouth twisted ironically.

'It is well that our swords are sharp and bright for this journey,' Elladan said in way of explanation for his presence. 'You will go with Aragorn of course?' He stood at the whetting stone, small wheels of stone mounted so one could turn it and hold the blade against it so it gradually honed the steel. His foot worked the pedal that turned the stone and a trickle of water kept the blade cool.

'Of course.' Elrohir unsheathed dark Aícanaro and weighed it in his hand, feeling the curve of the hilt, the thickness of it like it had been made for him, though it had not. 'This is his greatest test and I would not abandon him now.'

'Nor I.' Elladan bent over the whetting stone, and lay his blade gently against it. 'Glorfindel surely will go with us. And perhaps Erestor.'

Elrohir did not look up but watched the blade sharp on the stone, soothed by the sparks that flew from the blade. 'Frodo has an esquire with him. Samwise. He will go to wait upon Frodo. And Mithrandir of course.'

'Father will choose some others to go with him.' Elladan spoke softly but it would have had the same effect had he shouted and bellowed. Elrohir stiffened at the mention of his father and Elladan glanced at him and looked away again.

'There is the Man too. From Gondor. Boromir,' he said thoughtfully. 'He is going South anyway.'

Elrohir frowned. 'Denethor's son.' Neither spoke for a moment, remembering how Denethor had been when Aragorn dwelt for a while in Gondor and fought in her army.

'Will Denethor remember Thorongil I wonder,' Elladan tilted his head and changed the angle of his blade slightly, carefully angled the blade against the whetting stone, turning it often and its soft scrape and whir was strangely soothing.

'Sauron's fall does not guarantee Denethor will yield the throne,' Elrohir said darkly. 'And Aragorn will still have no army to challenge him.' Elrohir watched the sparks fly and the white metal of his brother's sword seemed as pure as he was.

'And our promise to Arwen?'

The brothers' eyes met like lightning. 'We will stand by her, keep our promise. Even if we fall beside Aragorn, we will have kept our word.'

'And father?'

Elrohir's eyes hardened to ice. 'What does it matter what Elrond thinks? He sits by and lets the world happen.' Celebrián's ghost almost shimmered between them and Elrohir clenched his teeth remembering the thinness, the faraway look in her eyes that would not meet his for the years Elrond had uselessly stood by and let her fade...unable to heal her soul. And then given up and let her go.

And now the healing Elrond tried to pour like a balm over Elrohir served only to infuriate him; had it not been useless for his poor damaged mother? How dared he! Elrohir did not want healing, he did not want to forget, he did not want to let those memories dim and fade. He needed them to spur him on to greater vengeance, and he and Elladan would not have returned except for the news that Nazgul had entered the Valley and they had turned back from the Wilds and ridden with haste.

'He is acting now,' Elladan observed. 'Destroying Isildur's Bane will destroy Sauron forever. At last.' He lifted his frost-white sword and squinted along the blade. 'All these unexpected visitors, they have thrown Erestor into turmoil.' He raised his grey eyes to Elrohir's and smiled mischievously and instantly Elrohir felt his heart lift and the violent lust that coiled in his belly slunk away. Elladan's own sweet calm soothed him and he smiled, for he loved his brother.

'Erestor is never in turmoil.'

'True. I suppose I mean the household. Dwarves have drunk all the beer, the Hobbits are eating all the food and the Woodelf is corrupting the staff.' He grinned and picked up his own whetting stone and lay it on the wide bench. A small bottle was already open on the bench and Elladan poured a tiny amount over his stone and lay his sharp sword against it now. Elrohir grunted in sort of agreement and let himself still. The grinding of stone on metal was soothing. 'Legolas Thranduillion seems to have set all the gossips' tongues loose,' he observed, concentrating on the bright sword. 'Have you met him yet?'

Elrohir said nothing but his thoughts lingered on the wide green eyes, the pale hair that swept down his straight back and a violent urge swept over him, making him almost tremble...Bile rose suddenly in his throat.

He forced it down. 'An Elf from Mirkwood...he is nothing. It is as Aragorn says; Mirkwood failed in our trust.' Elrohir paced the small area restlessly. He wanted to unsheathe dark Aícanaro but restrained himself. 'They are too busy drinking and feasting and whoring.'

Elladan glanced up at him in surprise and then dropped his gaze back to his sword. 'He is an archer of some note, Erestor says. And he crossed the mountains on his own when he companions were hurt.' Elladan picked up a small piece of sword-grit paper, sand glued onto one side and stroked it over the frost-white blade of Alcarinwë. 'He pursued the Orcs that attacked their home well into the South, to the shadows of Dol Guldur,' he added, concentrating on polishing his sword now so its bright metal gleamed in the lamplight.

He spent a little while longer polishing the blade and Elrohir watched silently, quelling the violence that surged through his groin and swelled his cock. He clenched his teeth and fists and wondered why it was now.

He caught Elladan watching him with a slight smile on his clear, lovely face. Ironically, Elrohir lifted one black brow in quizzical imitation of their father and Elladan laughed aloud then. He let his head tip back slightly when he laughed, which he did often, and then his sparkling grey eyes rested upon Elrohir.

'You are thinking too much,' he said lightly and slapped Elrohir on the chest. 'Leave Aícanaro and take off the cuirass and all this weighty mail and feel something other than War. Let us go to the Hall and listen to Dwarves singing. I like their deep voices.'

Elrohir shook his head slightly and smiled back. 'Very well. I will go with you. Gloín is amongst them whom I recall when they were here with Thorin Oakenshield.' He unbuckled his scabbard and laid Aícanaro on the bench where the smiths would find it the next morning. Elladan lay his own sword alongside.

As they left, Elrohir could not help but turn his head and look at Aícanaro and it seemed to him that his brother's frost-white Alcarinwë dimmed a little beside his own dark blade.

0o0o0

Elrond removed his circlet and placed it carefully on the dresser, rubbing his temples and wondering why his head pounded. He shucked off his heavy robes and threw them on the wide, empty bed. He looked at the bed for a moment. It had been so long. Celebrián would have known what to say, soothed him with a word, or a cool hand...He looked down knowing it would not be necessary had she been here.

He poured himself a glass of thin white wine from his own vineyards on the lower slopes of the mountains. It had a taste of steel that cut through richness and that he liked.

He sighed and shook his head, and pulled a serviceable tunic from a pile of clothes shoved over a chair. He pulled it on and chose a wide leather belt, fastening it and pulling it tight. More comfortable now, Elrond closed his hand over Vilya, let her warmth and power suffuse his own limbs now, soothe him.

Vilya always calmed him.

Even as Elrohir always distressed him.

He always knew when his sons neared the Valley, and always he threw out all the power of Vilya towards them, pulling them home, like a magnet. But whilst Elladan's calm blue peace reached out to him, the confused anger of Elrohir repelled him, throw him off like he was besieged. It always hurt. And now, when so much teetered on the brink of disaster, he gently pulled away and let Elrohir come to him. He waited, wishing they would come to him sooner, to confide in him...to rest their weary heads against his chest as they had done so long ago when they were children. But no longer.

They came to him now out of duty, not out of need or love. Usually it was terse, brief, a report no more. Usually Elladan stood silently by until Elrohir had given his report. But this time it was Elrond telling them of the Nazgul, of the discovery of the One Ring, and then as always, Elrohir had turned furiously, blaming Elrond somehow that he did not destroy it sooner, did not wrest it from Isildur and cast it himself into Mount Doom. Eru knew how much Elrond wished that himself. But he had no comfort from Elrohir who left in a whirl of furious energy, trailing his crimson fury and bitter anger like a banner, a long ribbon of fire. And Elrond was left feeling, as he always did, that he had failed his child somehow...

Elladan gave him a distressed look and reached out to his father gently, briefly, but then followed his brother soon after.

Elrond let them go, with regret and with no way of reaching out to each other across the hurt and pain of their shared loss. He turned away from himself in those moments, wondering how it was that he could heal others so easily yet could not heal his own bereaved family...how it was that he could not reach their souls.

His thoughts wandered now in his fatigue. It had been an already exhausting day without the added distress of his sons; the council had ended with Frodo saying he would take the Ring and it was clear that not only Mithrandir, his old friend, but Aragorn too would go. And the Man from Gondor, Boromir, son of Denethor.

The inner council meeting that had continued afterwards had been irritable and frustrating, with Erestor provoking Cirdan's emissary, Galdor. Elrond frowned. He would have to speak to Erestor and warn him to leave Galdor be. Another time Erestor would have agreed with Galdor that Thranduil had deliberately kept knowledge from them but he seemed to have been beguiled by the child Thranduil had sent to bear the news of their failure. In the end, Elrond had left them, saying he would greet his returning sons, for he had not seen them all Summer, although he knew they had travelled a while with Aragorn. It hurt even more than that they had stayed away.

He sipped his wine quietly, letting the cold steel taste bite the edge of his tongue, warm his throat, drive away those thoughts. It was the wine he had fetched from the cellar the day before, when he found Legolas Thranduillion half naked in his wine cellar. He smiled. He did not think he would ever forget such a sight; wild colour coiling around the naked chest, down one shoulder and curling around his waist, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. Not a child, he corrected himself. Young. Untutored perhaps, unlettered...less wise, but no child. And though he had been brought up by the Sons of Feänor, Elrond knew the Silvan folk of Mirkwood had their own wisdom. He savoured a mouthful of wine, let it soak his mouth, and thought of the gleaming naked skin, with its wild swirl of colour coiling sensuously about the Woodelf's lean, young body...

Thoughtfully he opened the door from his rooms into his marble terrace and the thermal pools he had designed for his own use but generously shared with those closest to him. This small luxury that he owed himself; he went there to replenish his own energy when he had given everything to another in healing. It was lovely, this suite of rooms, decadent he knew and indulgent. But he forgave himself the luxury for he had sought peace when Gil-Galad fell and Imladris had brought him that sanctuary. Here Air met Water in all its forms and Vilya was replenished by it, had led him here all those years ago, her spirit reaching for this place as if it were Magic. Vilya showed him how the Elements were brought together in this place; deep in the heart of the Mountains was Fire and above him, Air which was wild and sweet after the taint of Mordor. Waterfalls like silver ribbons fluttered in the moonlight, and deep pools were still and reflected the moon, silver and black, like the armour worn by his sons. As distant and as far from him as the Moon, he thought sadly.

He stood for a moment, thoughts returning again to them; it was always Elrohir who led, like a storm, full of anger and bitterness at their mother's torment, full of resentment towards Elrond himself, that dark, untrustworthy blade in his hand and Elrond saw only shadows around his son. And Elladan followed, his sweet son, the healer, who tempered his brother's fury...And then there was Arwen, who was already lost to him and was a shadow on the edge of his dreams.

He opened the glass doors onto the terrace and stood in the evening light. The air from the Mountains was clear, with a drift of frost. He pulled open his shirt and let the moonlight and cold air touch him lightly.

The night unrolled above him, clouds pushed back to reveal the glittering sky and there was the Mariner...He dipped his head, hardly able to look and in this moment of solitude and quiet, took out his own resentment and explored the bitterness that always pierced him as that star rose. He did not believe it was his father. It was a tale, that was all. But the child in him wished so hard sometimes that he had not been left alone by all he loved...they had all left him, or soon would. He could not remember his parents, but he had lost to the Void the bright shining souls that burned and flared in the world, that were the family who brought him up*...He saw the same fire in Elrohir, saw the same obsessive intensity and power, feared it would destroy Elrohir as it had destroyed the Sons of Fëanor. And that his sweet Elladan who would not abandon his brother, as the sons of Fëanor would not abandon their Oath, would follow Elrohir on the paths of Men.

He would lose them all.

He wondered if the Valar had intended to curse his House as thoroughly as he felt they had. It was a bitterness in his heart still and he found, in the stillness of the quiet moments where there was only him and Vilya, for those who were most precious to him, he would gladly pay any price...

The moment trembled, for he had here in his House the One Ring. And Vilya felt it.

It would be easy...there was only Gandalf who would oppose him. Vilya was more powerful...she harnessed the power of the Air...

A cold breeze stroked him, brought him back to himself. He blinked. It had been working on him all the time he had been with Frodo. The perfect gold, the perfect roundness of It against Frodo's skin...Such perfection, such gold...so precious...It would be easy...

He drank deeply letting the wine warm his throat and chest and the taste soak his mouth, distract him from those dangerous temptations. How easily It had slipped beneath his awareness, he thought, and he shivered. It could not stay here. He could not allow it. But was Frodo really strong enough? Even with Mithrandir and Aragorn to keep him safe?

Rubbing his eyes wearily, he went through the glass doors and stopped dead. It drove all thoughts of the One from his mind.

Someone was already there, lying in the water. He could see their head resting on the side, bright gold hair drifted on the water, an arm stretched along the side of the pool. And for a heart-freezing moment of yearning and loss, he thought, no merely wished, it was Celebrián. He felt a pang of losing her again. Over the long years, he had grown accustomed to the dull ache just below his ribs where he sometimes thought his heart had been ripped out.

Glorfindel lifted his head and gave his lovely smile. Elrond looked away to hide the disappointment but Glorfindel always knew. He heard the sound of water heaving and then washing the sides of the pool and knew that Glorfindel had pulled himself out of the water, would try to offer him comfort, but he did not want it. It was churlish but there were times he could not help himself. He could easily close these lovely pools to anyone else, but it seemed a crime to not share the luxury. And both Erestor and Glorfindel came here sometimes.

'Forgive me, old friend, it is ...one of those times.'

Glorfindel patted him lightly on the shoulder, wetness on his skin and warmth from the touch. Elrond turned in time to see the hard, lean body, muscles sliding under skin as the warrior wrapped a towel around his waist and turned back to Elrond.

'I know. I should not have startled you.' Glorfindel sat on a wooden bench beneath the rows of towels and robes and stretched out his long legs. His hair was dark gold now and wet and clung to his skin and those eyes that had seen...everything, were fixed on Elrond so he suddenly felt very young, as young as that child of Thranduil. He shook his head and gave a wry smile, and came to sit next to Glorfindel. Drops of water beaded on his skin.

'I thought you were her,' he confessed.

Glorfindel said nothing but rose and fetched an open bottle of wine and two goblets. He sat back down and held out one glass to Elrond and took another for himself. He drank and then gazed out of the open window at the fading sun, the evening emerging slowly over the mountains, stealing across the valley.

'Are you surprised?' he said eventually. 'The Ring is here. It seeks to find the chinks in your armour. She is the chink in your armour.' He drank slowly. 'As she is the chink in all our armour. Your sons...'

'My sons!' Elrond said in a choked voice full of distress. 'What do they do? They seek revenge they say. But they seek their own destruction in self-hatred and remorse. They cannot see it,' he finished uncertainly. That was not his voice speaking surely? Those inner fears had not be said?

Glorfindel was quiet but he slid a sidelong glance to Elrond that confirmed his fears.

'Will you go with him?' Elrond asked. 'You have Power to stand against the Nazgul, Angmar and his acolytes. Against Sauron too if need be.'

There was a silence and Glorfindel pulled his long hair back and squeezed out the water. Then he stood and he was tall and fair and his face was fearless. He looked down at Elrond and to Elrond it seemed for a moment as if he were one of the Ainur who lay his hand gently on Elrond's shoulder.

'Do you think I should?' Glorfindel asked kindly. 'The task falls to you to choose companions who will be suitable for the Quest. You said yourself it must be done in stealth and in secret. Choose those who are secret and stealthy then.' He gave his beautiful smile that was so full of joy, and it was for Elrond, as if he had glimpsed beyond the Veil to the silver shores where there was no grief.

The door banged loudly and a long lean shadow leaped on the marble walls. It was followed by Erestor who gave a wolfish smile and draped his long lean body over the opposite bench. 'You rascals,' he leered breaking the moment. 'What have you been up to without me?'

Elrond merely smiled but Glorfindel huffed uncharacteristically. 'Sometimes, Erestor, your mind is so much in the gutter that you cannot see what is in front of you.' He thrust a glass of wine in the counsellor's hand. 'Have they finished their discussion?'

Erestor snorted. 'They have stopped if that is what you mean. That Galdor can talk! And he says nothing. He is a fool!' he declared and took a long drink. 'Mithrandir smoked all the time and Aragorn is still furious about Gollum. You two sneaked off quick enough,' he added in an exaggerated whine.

'Galdor is the emissary of Cirdan,' Elrond reminded him seriously and Erestor pah'd. Sometimes Elrond wondered that Erestor could be such a skilled diplomat in public and so dismissive and intolerant in private.

'You did not hear him.' Erestor muttered. 'He said it was no great loss that the Woodelves guards had been slain or taken!' He could not keep the outrage from his voice. 'Even Aragorn was shocked.'

Elrond stared at Erestor, surely Galdor could not have said such a thing, and then he sighed, knowing it was just the sort of thing Galdor might have said in the heat of a debate, say argument rather, with Erestor who would have goaded him. 'Whatever he may have said, he is still Cirdan's emissary, and please Erestor, treat him with respect.' Glorfindel looked away. There was great sadness in his eyes and Elrond knew he would have been grieved to hear that the Mirkwood guards had been so brutally attacked. Either slain or taken...it chilled the heart to think what those taken would have endured. And the expression on young Thranduillion's face had been enough.

'You are fiery tonight,' Glorfindel observed with misgiving, disapproval. 'Has young Legolas sparked something in your cold heart?'

'He would merely be a tasty snack,' Erestor responded quickly as he was expected and smacked his lips and Elrond wondered at that. Those who did not know Erestor thought and said many things about him but he never showed the slightest concern what anybody thought. He courted it, invested time in creating this persona; the rumours, the legend even. But Elrond knew that deep within, an old hurt flamed. Erestor was not cold. He burned but it was a slow flame now after so long. Once he had flared and leaped and scorched as much as any other but Elrond knew he had learned patience. So it might well suit him that the Valley thought he had Legolas Thranduillion in his sights.

And if he were honest, it was a temptation to Elrond himself who had never wanted anyone since he met Celebrian, not even in the aftermath of battle. His heart was completely hers. But the Ring, he knew now, distorted things and if he found the courage of the silvans attractive, and he wanted to know more, that was all it was. He thought there was something precious in the Woodelf.

Erestor however had a rather more predatory expression on his face.

'You look thoughtful,' Elrond said casually and Erestor looked up.

'He has shown his mettle, has he not? He has fought under the Shadows of Mirkwood, gone to the Tower itself in pursuit of one of his men, and crossed the Mountains on his own. Is that not enough?' he asked and Glorfindel shook his head in disapproval.

'Erestor, please. For once show restraint. He is a child!'

'He is a Woodelf,' Erestor responded swiftly, too swiftly. 'Why? Are you hungry enough yet yourself, Glorfindel? How long has it been for you?' Elrond raised an eyebrow at that deliberate wounding and wondered that Erestor felt he had to spar with Glorfindel.

'You are Glorfindel the Golden,'Erestor continued and swooped upon Elrond's half drained glass and downed the rest of the wine quickly. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'You could crook your finger and he would come running.' He laughed but there was no bitterness. Erestor's hawkish eyes briefly met Elrond's but there was understanding and something else. 'Why do you resist?' he asked but he meant Glorfindel. 'He is willing and beautiful. You would disappoint him?'

'He is young, younger even than Elrond's children!' Glorfindel always had trouble with that, thought Elrond and Erestor was goading him, pushing him beyond that immense calm and patience. That had never stopped Erestor either.

'Hardly difficult! If that is to be your test you will never lie with anyone again.' Erestor lifted one elegant eyebrow and snagged the open bottle, poured the last of the wine into Elrond's empty glass. 'This is the good stuff,' he said wryly, and then more gently, he turned to Elrond himself. 'And you, Elrond? She would never have wanted you to be so lonely you know. He is lovely and sweet, and a little naive but no innocent. No one need know.'

Elrond recoiled. Too much, tonight at least, thought Elrond. And even though he knew his old companion and friend only wished him well, he could not speak of it, did not want to even be reminded of it. He turned away from them both and busied himself with pouring wine, wiping away the marks left on the table by the open bottle. Wine stains, a perfect ring...

'You and Elrohir are so alike,' Erestor's voice continued softly behind him. He heard Glorfindel remonstrate quietly but Erestor was in one of those moods that took him, where he said everything. 'You both run furiously from it but you cannot escape it. Guilt. It follows. Inexorably.'

'And you would know,' snapped Elrond unforgivably.

'Yes,' Erestor answered mildly. 'So take it from one who knows as well as you.' It took away the sting and the amber eyes caught his, held his gaze softly so he saw the memories, the shared loss and pain, remembered how they had clung together and wept.

His old friend unfolded his long lean body gracefully, for he had always been graceful, thought Elrond, and bowed. But there was no meaning in it, he did it for effect, for show, for the drama of it, and Elrond smiled then.

'Be gentle with him if you pursue him, Erestor.'

Erestor cast him a swift look and lifted an eyebrow ironically. 'He is a Woodelf, Elrond. I do not think he will break.'

tbc


	10. Searching the Bruinen

Beta: Wonderful Anarithilen.

Summary: Legolas has arrived in Imladris in time to join the Council of Elrond. He has told his tale of Gollum's escape, during which Naurion, a member of the guard, was captured and killed, and of the slaying of Legolas' childhood friends, Celdir and Anglach. Since he arrived in Imladris, Legolas has taken up with Berensul, a member of Elrond's household, and has sort of met Elrohir. In this chapter, Legolas volunteers to join the Elves that Elrond sends to scout the lands around Rivendell to ensure the Nazgul have gone.

'Elrond is sending Elves, and they will get in touch with the Rangers, and maybe with Thranduil's folk in Mirkwood. And Aragorn has gone with Elrond's sons. We shall have to scour the lands around for many long leagues before any move is made.' Gandalf. FoTR. Chapter 3.

Warning: Violence and brutality in the next three chapters. Slash in this chapter as well as later, undercurrents of repressed desire and violence.

Thank you to Vanwa, sal009, freddie, sapphirethief, Melethen, gginsc, this littelpiggystayedathome, archwriter, Melusine, Dawn (yes, it is. This chapter starts to show how) Azalias, Guest, julsa. I really appreciate that you bothered to let me know that you are enjoying this - thank you.

Chapter 10: Searching the Bruinen

Berensul had not come to him until the early hours, knocking lightly on the door. When Legolas opened it he was already disheveled and when Legolas stepped aside to let him in, he snatched a kiss as he passed. He smelt of a woman, thought Legolas surprised. He followed Berensul in and watched as the Imladrian Elf cast himself back on the bed, his long dark hair spreading out over the pillows. His cheeks were flushed.

Legolas was no stranger to the ways of love and cocked his head to one side knowingly, noted that Berensul looked away and would not meet his gaze. Legolas poured a goblet of wine and drank it. He did not pour one for Berensul, not yet.

'It's Elemé,' Berensul said finally, awkwardly. He shrugged and twiddled with a thread on the sheets. 'She seduced me'

Legolas raised his eyebrows at the preposterousness of Berensul's claim and shook his head slightly. He turned then and poured a goblet for Berensul, approached the bed where the Elf sprawled and handed it to him. At the open window, the sheer gauze that veiled them from the outside world fluttered and the smell of snow in the mountains drifted in.

Berensul took the goblet and then looked up at him. He paused for a moment and then smiled wryly. 'She has always pursued me,' he said almost petulantly. In the moonlight, his smooth dark hair gleamed and he looked down so his long lashes lay against his cheek. He sipped the wine Legolas had given him, avoiding his gaze.

Legolas sat on the bed beside him, stroked a hair back from Berensul's face and asked, 'What of her suitor, out in the Wilds?'

Berensul looked sheepish and would not meet his eye so that Legolas guessed. 'There isn't one,' he realised and frowned. 'Why did you...?' He paused and looked away feeling foolish, deceived.

'You were obviously interested in her, you were going to pursue her,' said Berensul looking up at Legolas from beneath his eyelashes in a practised shyness that did not fool Legolas. 'And I wanted you,' he added, unrepentant.

'You could still have had me,' said Legolas a little annoyed. 'I wish you had not lied,' he said turning away from Berensul.

He stood, pulling the sheet from Berensul and wrapping it around his waist for he felt suddenly that he did not want to be naked in front of Berensul. He was less bothered by the fact that Berensul had come from another lover than by the lie itself that she had a suitor.

'I am sorry for it now.' Berensul reached out and caught Legolas' hand, kissed his wrist. 'I did not know you then.' He looked up again at Legolas but this time there was no guile.

'And what of Elemé?' Legolas demanded. 'What does she feel about you leaving her and creeping into my bed?' He did not pull his hand away though and stood, undecided and looking down at Berensul.

'Elemé will not mind. I think she will like it,' Berensul said with a gleam in his green eyes and a flash of white teeth. 'I told you we could all...'

'Enough!' Legolas said and laughed suddenly. 'You are incorrigible. You should live in the Wood.' He thought Berensul lovely and even if he had come from another, still desired him so he knelt and pulled him close, kissing his mouth.

They had taken leave of each other sweetly and as the first pale light of dawn crept over the Mountains, Legolas had washed thoroughly in the sumptuous bathroom, still wondering at the warm water that spurted into the porcelain bowl. Berensul had brought breakfast with him, and after his ablutions Legolas sat and ate the bread, fruit and cheese hungrily. Then he dressed, pulled on his boots, belted his tunic. Lastly he sat and braided his hair and watched Berensul, who was propped up on his elbow with his long dark hair spilling over the white rumpled sheets.

'You are very early,' Berensul said, still soft with sleep. 'No one else will even be about. You will be the first to be ready. '

Legolas scooped up his quiver and bow, slid his knives into their sheaths and checked his belt and boots. Then he touched Berensul lightly in farewell, but it weighed on him that Berensul might feel a little guilty still and Legolas would not be here for much longer.

'You are free to pursue whomsoever you wish,' he reminded Berensul gently.

Berensul had merely blinked at him sleepily and smiled. 'Be safe,' he said and rolled over to sleep. Legolas wondered if Elemé knew that Berensul had come to him after he had been with her, and if she cared.

00o0o

The pale crack of light crept over the mountains later than in the Wood, Legolas thought, leaning his head against the stone pillar where he waited for Glorfindel and his warriors to appear. He even wondered if he had missed everyone for it was past dawn and surely everyone would be up and about now ready to ride out, to make the most of the daylight as they did in the Wood. He had already walked about the grounds, and found sleepy horses in a large, well-kept stable yard. They had whickered softly to him but no one else was about. It seemed that everyone else still slept and he wondered how many inhabitants there were of Imladris.

He sat on the stone wall and swung his legs a little, waiting. Berensul was right, he was far too early. At last he saw the sun climb above the Mountains and the sunlight poured over the House. And into that golden light emerged Glorfindel.

Legolas almost sighed aloud.

The Elf-lord turned and gold shot through his hair and there was such a joy and fearlessness in his face that Legolas felt he had looked beyond the Veil and seen the Far Shore and there was nothing to fear...When Glorfindel smiled at Legolas and raised his hand in greeting, he felt his mouth drop open. He may have even drooled, he thought later with embarrassment.

'You decided to stay? Good. I am glad.' His thoughts were interrupted by Boromir, the son of the Steward of Gondor.

Legolas shook himself free of his hero-worship and smiled easily in welcome, pushing away from the wall to stand with Boromir. 'Your words moved me,' he told the Man and was pleased to see Boromir's gratified expression in return for his honesty. 'And one more day will not inconvenience me at all.'

'I think it will be more than one day,' Boromir replied, looking at the number of Elves assembled.

It seemed many for a simple scout around the immediate area of Imladris and Legolas frowned. There must be over two dozen Elves, some on horses and some not. Elrond was there, dressed as if for hunting, and Aragorn stood with Mithrandir. To Legolas' surprise, one of the Dwarves also joined Aragorn and stood talking with him in a quiet voice. But then the Brethren, the Sons of Elrond arrived, and even amongst such illustrious company, Legolas felt the change in the air, as if a storm was gathering. The air crackled and he felt the hairs on his neck rise but not in fear but instead with anticipation. He could not help but stare. Identical, noble and fair they were, their long black-silk hair loosely braided but where Glorfindel brought joy and courage, a darkness seemed to settle around them and the assembled warriors drew back a little from them as if in fear.

Mithrandir was standing on a nearby terrace, leaning on his staff and watching everything with shrewd blue eyes. Legolas pushed his way through the assembled Elves and hailed him.

The Wizard started slightly and then greeted Legolas cheerfully. 'Ah, there you are, Legolas. Well done for getting here on time. I was worried for a moment that you were going to miss the Council.'

Legolas frowned. 'What made you think...? How did you know...?' And then he shook his head again. It was always best not to enquire too deeply of Wizards, his father always said. His father also said other things about Wizards that were less subtle, like trouble following Mithrandir like carrion follows war. 'It is good to see you, Mithrandir,' he said and pushed past some Elves with a slight bow and apology to join him.

Mithrandir gave a slow smile and then looked at him kindly. 'It is good to see you too, Legolas. I would ask after your father but there is little time right now. We must have a talk you and I when you get back. There is something I need you to do for me.'

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he thought the folk of the Wood had done quite enough but it was not in him really. That was Thranduil speaking and he sighed. 'Of course, Mithrandir.'

Mithrandir patted him on the arm and his blue eyes were grave. 'I am sorry that you lost people in helping me, Legolas.'

Legolas looked away and the pain of his failure was too deep to speak of so instead he said, 'I have news of the Nazgul. Two passed me on the Mountain. I have not been able to tell you this before.'

Mithrandir's kindly face changed then and Legolas thought he glimpsed something harder, brighter. 'Well now. They passed you by, did they? Did they sense you? Smell is their main sense you know.'

'No. I hid from them well.'

'And were you afraid?'

Legolas glanced at the Wizard briefly and then away. 'Of course I was afraid. They are terrifying.'

'But you thought of other things. And kept your fear in check,' observed Mithrandir thoughtfully. 'Well done, Thranduilion. Not many could have done so. Most would have fled.'

Legolas shrugged. 'I did not challenge them as Glorfindel did, or drive them off as Aragorn. It can hardly be said to be a great deed.' He thought of the way he had cowered in the scrubby heather and whortleberries in the mountains and was not proud.

'Well, never mind that now. I am pleased you are here and safe.' The Wizard gave him a quick dismissive smile and turned to make his way towards Elrond leaving Legolas alone on the terrace.

Legolas watched the Wizard, unperturbed by his abruptness; it was one of his charms, as Galion said. Mithrandir leaned towards Elrond now and spoke quietly. The Elf-lord had glanced over at Legolas and there was speculation in his eyes.

Glorfindel was shuffling his warriors about, directing them here or there. Elrond and Mithrandir stood with what was clearly one party, and Erestor stood with what was clearly another. One of the Sons of Elrond stood talking quietly to their father and the other stood separately, staring out over the mountains southwards. Two black horses stood saddled and bridled, packs strapped to their saddles as if for a long journey. In the crisp morning, their breath steamed and they shook their heads and fretted at the silver bits in their mouths. Legolas wondered where they were going for the other horses standing waiting were not so laden.

At last Glorfindel beckoned to Legolas and Boromir, and directed Legolas to the group where Aragorn stood and Boromir to the other. A large grey horse stood patiently beside Aragorn, one back hoof resting. Its eyes were half closed and it was dozing, but its quiet patience hid great strength, thought Legolas. It was not an elven steed such as the black horses Elrohir and Elladan.

With him was the younger Dwarf who had spoken to Elemé in the Halls of Fire. Legolas nodded to him briefly, looking into the earth-brown eyes that narrowed at his greeting.

'Legolas Th...'

'I know who you are,' said the Dwarf curtly, and although he did not turn away he eyed Legolas distrustfully.

'...At your service,' Legolas finished in spite of the Dwarf's rudeness, for his father would expect him to show such courtesy to a neighbour of the Wood. Just in case.

The Dwarf did not return his greeting but turned his head and greeted Boromir more warmly so Legolas wondered if he had done the right thing in staying. Aragorn had not spoken to him either.

Boromir gave him a sideways look and touched his arm briefly. 'Do not regret your kindness,' he said, drawing Legolas quietly away. 'I have found that sometimes the greatest antagonism leads to the greatest friendship.'

Legolas gave him a doubtful look and was about to reply when he felt a gaze fall upon him like a weight. He looked around to find the Sons of Elrond stood now with Aragorn and both were watching him intently. He drew himself up and smoothed his hand over his braids as if reassuring himself all was in order, for these warriors were magnificent, and though he knew his worth he could hardly believe he was to be riding out with Glorfindel, Elrond, and the Sons of Thunder. He could not stop a wide grin that spread over his face. But it was only Boromir who returned it.

He shrugged and gave Boromir a rueful smile as the Man joined the other group and they began to move away, going North, taking the road that Legolas himself had taken when he first arrived in the Valley.

His own troop set off soon after. The sky was sharp blue, and the air frost laden. Leaves that were turning from gold and red to brown now, drifted on the breeze. They crossed the bridge and followed the banks of the Bruinen until they reached a fork in the road and at a sign from Glorfindel, the troop split again with Elrond and Mithrandir leading one group. Legolas was left with Glorfindel, Aragorn, the Dwarf, the Sons of Elrond, and two Imladrian warriors, Rhawion and Amron.

The Sons of Elrond walked alongside their horses with Glorfindel and did not even look at Legolas. He remembered the sense of Power and energy when he first set eyes upon the Son of Elrond and was disappointed. Perhaps he had been simply overwhelmed by the events he had heard spoken of, or that he was simply tired and more susceptible to whatever Power there was in the House. Whatever it was, clearly it had been in his mind alone and the impression he had made upon the Son of Thunder had been negligible and he was not deemed worthy of notice. His mouth twisted wryly and he thought of home. Perhaps Imladris was not the great adventure he thought it would be after all.

0o0o0

The River Bruinen swept through the narrow gorge, its water white-foamed as it surged over rocks away to the right of them, and Legolas thought it deserved its name, Loud-water. Ahead of him, the Dwarf, Gimli, walked with Aragorn and the two were deep in conversation so that Legolas wondered what they spoke of. He himself walked slightly apart, between the two Imladrian warriors, Amron and Rhawion, and Glorfindel who was behind him with the Sons of Elrond. He could, if he wanted, hear what any of them were saying but he had never eavesdropped and did not intend to start now, whatever the temptation. But the Dwarf clinked slightly as he walked and Legolas guessed he had a small armoury beneath that cloak, much as Legolas had concealed a number of weapons about his own person. He was quite sure that the other Elves in the party were similarly attired. Instead he listened to the forests that climbed out of the Valley and up the shoulders of the towering mountains.

In the late Autumn morning, beech trees clustered at the edges of the gorge and silver birches clung to impossible crannies in the cliffs. He smiled to see their tenacious hold on life and turned instinctively to the Elves to point out one sapling clinging to an impossible cranny in the cliffs but his joyful exclamation was met with a baffled stare from Rhawion and amusement from Amron, so he shrugged and from the on kept his delight to himself. He found his feet took him off the road and he wanted to let his feet sink into the deep moss that covered the ground, and the rocks like a deep carpet.

He spoke a little but listened more, for Gimli and Aragorn seemed well acquainted now and Aragorn described the distant lands of Rohan, of Umbar and the harbours of Dol Amroth. And when he spoke of the Sea, Legolas found something shifted in him and he thought he would like to travel further afield.

Glorfindel had instructed that everyone speak Westron, in respect to Gimli. And in truth Legolas sometimes found the heavy Imladrian accent difficult to follow; it seemed more clipped and sharper than his own lilting Silvan dialect although it was all Sindarin. They used different words sometimes as well, ones he did not know and so the common tongue was a fair compromise.

He had recovered a little from the awe with which he viewed the company he walked in and he tried to keep his hero-worship under his cloak as it were, for the two Imladrian guards had regarded him with faint amusement until he realised that he was gawping and closed his mouth, giving them a wry smile and shrugging. One of them at least had smiled back in understanding.

They had quickly made their way through the gorge and to the Ford where the Nazgul had been swept away by the river. Even now it seemed the River was still turbulent and deep. Now they paused and Glorfindel and Aragorn went to look for any tracks of horses on this side of the river, for even though the Nazgul were wraiths and would leave no tracks, the horses were not.

Legolas turned and scanned the river, his eye catching far down the banks, a tattered black cloth, he thought, in the river. He leaned out a little over the bank and squinted against the fading sun. The water moved and the black rags spread out in the current and he realised it was not cloth but hair...the tail of a black horse, and now he saw the bloated carcass was caught in branches of a fallen tree and what he thought was a rock wet from the river was the body of one of the Nazgul's steeds. He let his senses stretch out and listened, felt...but there was nothing. He called to the group waiting on the banks of the river and ran lightly down the bank to the long shore, and picked his way across to the carcass.

It stank, that oily stink of death that coats the back of the throat, and the eye sockets were already picked out by carrion. The black hide had been torn open and red flesh, white bone showed beneath. But worse was the taint of the Nazgul. The air around it felt strange, dislocated, like he was looking into a tunnel or into a pool where the world was reflected and everything was sepia and strangely distorted. His fingertips prickled slightly but it was not because the Nazgul were here, but instead because they had been.

He returned and by that time, both Glorfindel and Aragorn had joined the group.

'One of the Nazgul's beasts is caught in that fallen tree, my lord,' he told them, pulling himself back up to the road.

Glorfindel turned and narrowed his eyes and followed where Legolas pointed. He nodded. 'Was there any other sign of Nazgul?'

'No, my lord. Nothing.'

Glorfindel nodded. 'There is nothing on the shore either. We must push that body out into the river. It will simply rot and taint everything in this area if left there. Legolas and Gimli, will you set about that task. Aragorn, go with them and search for other tracks while you are there. See if there is anything else left. None of you touch anything. Use sticks to push it away.'

Legolas' heart sank and when he glanced up at the Dwarf, he looked no happier than Legolas.

Glorfindel turned to the Sons of Elrond. 'Ride back up along the other bank and see what you find. Join us at Luin-Aglar. We will set camp there. The water will be clean there and the camp safe.' The Brethren nodded in unison and whirled their horses away. Sable cloaks billowed behind them and the fading sunlight caught on the silver bits and runes that curled on their sheaths.

Legolas led Gimli back down to where he had seen the dead horse while Aragorn left his patient grey horse by the ford and walked further downriver. It was an unpleasant job but the two of them waded knee-deep into the icy river without complaint. It was bitter cold and the current was strong enough to pull at Legolas. At one point his foot slipped and he would have plunged in had he not caught his hand on an overhanging branch. The roar of the river as it swept through the gorge drowned their voices and Legolas found himself shouting to the Dwarf to be heard, but when the Dwarf spoke it seemed his deep voice was beneath the sound and carried better than either Man or Elf.

'Raise it with that branch,' the Dwarf said and Legolas took hold of the other end of it and together they levered the body free so it was suddenly taken by the current and then it whirled and was turned by the rushing river. It was caught against rocks for a moment and then swept away.

Legolas did not speak but Gimli said quietly in his voice that sounded like the gravel of the river and the deep places of the Mountain, 'It is a travesty of Nature to see a beast so enslaved to evil. I wonder what Sauron has done to make a mortal beast carry a Ringwraith?'

Legolas glanced down in surprise, for he thought Dwarves cared nothing for their animals. The Dwarf must have seen it for he said then in a voice that was angry and defensive, 'You think us stone, Master Elf, and we think you dull-witted. Who is to say we are both wrong?'

Legolas snapped. 'Youarewrong in one thing at least,' he said quickly. 'We think you dull-witted as well.' He turned and leaped lightly up onto the riverbank to come face to face with Aragorn, ignoring Gimli's spluttered rejoinder.

The Man did not seem surprised by Legolas' sudden appearance, nor by the frozen silence between the two of them for the rest of the time they searched the banks. Legolas felt the deep eyes of the Dwarf boring into his back but did not care. A few days at most would be needed for this task, then he would be done with his duty and back on the trail home. He was quite resolved that he would travel alone rather than with any Dwarves.

At last Aragorn called for them to make their way to join Glorfindel. Legolas looked at the water that poured over the Ford and thought he would be thigh-deep in crossing and the current strong.

Aragorn paused before it and though he turned to all of them, it was clear it was Gimli with whom he was concerned. 'Can we all cross safely or do we wait until the river has gone down?'

'If you mean me, Aragorn, say so.' The Dwarf hefted his axe as if he might use it to cross the river.

'Peace, Gimli.' Aragorn raised his hand to pacify the Dwarf but Legolas thought that such an unreasonable person as their dwarvish companion would not be so easily swayed. 'I did not say so, but if you feel it is more likely that you cannot cross, there is no shame in that.'

'Pah! As if I mind getting a bit wet!'

Legolas suppressed a sigh- surely the Dwarf could see it would come up over his waist at least. And that great axe would be no help at all.

'Perhaps you should ride Roheryn,' Aragorn suggested. 'My horse,' he added.

Legolas glanced at the placid beast. It stood resting its hoof, as it did whenever Legolas looked at it. It seemed at ease, resting and he wondered if it ever did more than plod.

'My own two feet were enough to get me here and my own two feet will see me home.'

Legolas could have said any number of sharp things but bit his tongue instead and rolled his eyes.

Aragorn brought Roheryn forwards and certainly the heavy patient horse was not going to have any trouble crossing, Legolas thought. It snorted as if it shared Legolas' irritation.

'Legolas, can you lead Roheryn. Gimli and I will stand on the other side of him so his body shields us from the heaviest of the flood,' said Aragorn. 'I intend to hold onto the stirrup. Gimli for I do not wish a dousing. You may do as you wish.'

Legolas nodded and quickly took the reins from the Man. He rested his hand on the horse's nose and breathed through his nose so his breath ghosted over the horse's nostrils. He caught a slight amused patience from the beast and looked a second time. Intelligent brown eyes gazed back at him with unending patience and then it heaved a deep sigh, as horses do when they are a little bored. Legolas smiled and thought they might do well to simply let the horse lead them.

He entered the cold water. It was melt water from the glaciers and snow on the Misty Mountains, white-green like ice. It was cold enough to take his breath and for the horse to shy once when it stepped into it, but it did not as first Aragorn, then Gimli, followed.

When Aragorn entered the icy water, he gasped and when it reached his thighs, he shouted a curse and Gimli laughed. But Legolas watched Gimli for he simply strode in, crossed and sank first to his waist, then to his chest. He raised the great axe above his head and did not stop, his face did not flicker with discomfort and Legolas found a begrudging respect for the Dwarf at that moment. When they emerged on the other side, the Dwarf simply sat on the scrubby grass and pulled off his boots, emptied them of water and pulled them back on. Legolas did the same but Aragorn flapped his arms and ran about for a moment while Legolas watched with amusement. Thranduil had friendship with Dale at least so Legolas was used to Men, knew something of their ways and their physical weakness, but he remembered Bard well, had liked him, and fought alongside him, knew his sons and daughters. Ah, his daughters.

He was caught in elven memories and had a smile upon his lips when they arrived at the place Glorfindel had called Luin-Aglar. It was a deep, fast-flowing tributary that fed into the Bruinen. Its cold cloudy waters were unusually green-blue, almost turquoise and it plunged through a little gorge so cliffs lined the river. But further down towards it confluence with the Bruinen it flowed into a deep pool that was still and quiet before the water rushed beyond and into the Bruinen. Here a pebbly beach had formed at the foot of the cliffs of the gorge giving way to lush grassy banks and here Glorfindel had made his camp.

The two Imladrian guards already sat companionably around a small fire, breaking open some provisions. One of them, Amron, smiled brightly when Legolas approached and held up a pack of leaf-wrapped lembas.

Legolas made a face and shook his head. 'Thank you but I have had more than enough of lembas in the last few weeks.' He wondered if Ceredir the cook had as famously a heavy hand as Galion, but he did not ask.

'Ah. Then you might prefer bread and cheese, dried meat perhaps? Here. We have enough rations for everyone.' He handed Legolas a carefully wrapped wedge of cheese and a half loaf of bread that must have been made that morning.

Legolas thanked him and sat down with them. Both Elves he found to be talkative and well disposed. He was ravenous and ate what he had been given quickly, then looked about to see what needed to be done. Kindling and firewood needed collecting and he set off with both the Imladrians. As they collected dry timber from the surrounding woodlands, he asked them what their normal patrol was and their duties and was surprised to learn how light it seemed. Except when they ventured with the Sons of Elrond, when they hunted Orcs deliberately. But both were strangely reticent about that and fell silent when Glorfindel joined them to talk briefly about the plan for the rest of the day, which was to base themselves here and to thoroughly search this area. The following day they would search the next section of the river and press on into The Angle where Aragorn's folk dwelt and whose help they would enlist in their search.

The Brethren had not yet returned and Glorfindel was untroubled by their absence.

o0o0

Three more black horses were found later that day as well as a tattered black robe that was curled over an overhanging branch like a black snake. Legolas had sensed that strange dislocation in the air, and the trees felt strange, as if some dread thing had brushed its hand lightly over the leaves, touched the grass, drifted over the earth. He stopped and lifted his head to stare around him.

'What do you feel?' He turned to see that Glorfindel was watching him and he felt a keenness in that glance, like he looked beneath the skin, saw him as he truly was.

'The air is different...It always is when they have passed.' Legolas frowned, wondering that none of the other Elves seemed able to sense it. 'It feels greasy, and it's like looking through a tunnel of glass.' Glorfindel came and stood very close to Legolas. 'You have felt this often?'

'Yes. In the South of the Wood. But more recently they have come closer to us and they led the attack on our folk when Gollum escaped.'

Aragorn came and stood with them then. 'I have heard it described so before,' he said. 'I have heard Elrohir say that there is a sense of otherworldliness...A strange smell.'

'The earth remembers their unhallowed feet and the air their cold, black breath,' he said seriously and then remembered to whom he spoke and blushed. 'I am sorry my lord. I know you know this. You defeated the Witchking of Angmar and drove them off single handed- all Nine.' He bit his lip hearing himself gush embarrassingly.

He saw Amron and Rhawion exchange an amused glance and Glorfindel shook his head. 'At the Bridge, they departed only because they knew I did not have that which they seek,' he said. 'Even I cannot defeat them, Legolas. The Witchking cannot be defeated by man. And the other Nazgul were merely unhorsed and uncloaked, becoming the wraiths that they really are. They do not need a form to invoke fear.'

He turned and looked about him. The woods were quiet but in this space where the black robe had been found, not an insect stirred and the leaves seemed to draw back from where it rested. Legolas could almost see where the Nazgul had passed by and he realised the tiny hairs on his neck and down his spine were raised. He looked away, remembering the intense cold that had crept over him on the Mountains and the lingering smell of an empty tomb. His fingertips tingled but it was a distant memory. They were gone.

0o0o

They had found nothing, thought Elrohir angrily. Not even a hoof-print or a tattered black robe. Nothing. And so as night fell, they returned to join Glorfindel and his small band.

He had pulled off his cloak and tied it to his saddle so it would not slow him down and now he leaned low over Barakhir's neck to urge him ever faster, heard Elladan close, caught the sight of his brother, long hair streamed in the wind, tangled with starlight, tangled with starlight. He felt Barakhir's muscles stretch and his long legs pull, long black mane whipped back as they plunged through the night.

No, they had not found the Nazgul, though his blood roared for it, thundered with need for an encounter, for the battle and blood. He felt himself burgeon and fill with lust, for battle, for blood and knew he needed to spend himself in slaughter, stand deep in blood and gore, wash the stains of his terrible sin from his hands in blood.

He felt his dark sword hiss at his closeness to the Nazgul. For they had been close, had attacked his home, and he had not been there, had missed them by days. His blood and bones called for revenge and a thrill ran through him; Elladan was by his side, Aícanaro in his sheath, Barakhir beneath him, Glorfindel ahead. Invincible, he thought himself, knew himself to be. For there was something that slid between his thoughts...a darkness that he sent scurrying back to crouch in the deep places of his heart. Ignored. The Nazgul would not touch him...they were afraid.

Two black horses, black-clad riders on the silvered road, breath frosting under the stars, and the air surging around them. Starlight caught in the long manes of their horses, in their hair, mercurial, fluid, silken, caught on the silver bits and stirrups, on the mithril runes etched onto the sheaths of their swords. Hooves pounded the road, thundered over the grass, leaped the fords and water sprayed up as they passed like the wind under the hard bright stars. They tore down the old road and drew close to the ridge above Luin-Aglar.

Out of the darkness came a voice, a light voice that he did not recognise, an unfamiliar accent, softer, lengthening the vowels and softening the consonants. 'Hold, Elrondion.' It lilted out of the darkness like some strange call and for a moment he felt a sense of eerie dislocation and in the darkness, Elrohir thought he could see a faint brightness, that seemed edged with green-gold like sunlight through spring leaves.

Barakhir skidded to a halt, threw up his head and pranced, turned in a tight circle around the intruder. Dark Aícanaro slid singing from his sheath and the blade glimmered in Elrohir's fist.

Elladan who drew up alongside, his black horse, Baragur, breathing hard. 'You are out of condition, brother,' Elladan laughed softly and swung easily from his horse. Elrohir was yet mounted and Barakhir circled, picking up his rider's unease, his tension, unsettled excitement that he could not quite account for. 'Why are you drawn?' asked Elladan, his lovely face suddenly concerned. 'Is that not Legolas?'

The bright voice came back. 'Yes my lords. Our camp is below.'

Already Elladan had dismounted and was slackening Baragur's girth. Yet Elrohir hesitated.

He knew who Legolas was, had observed the Mirkwood Elf on the road, could not help looking at him. No one could; he drew the eye. So when Elrohir had passed him on the stairs the day before, he had turned to look, with a strange sense of foresight, and green-gold light shimmered in the air as he passed. And then he had seen him that same night in the gardens, clearly in a tryst with Berensul.

Elrohir's lip curled in contempt. More dangerous, less wise indeed; the son of Thranduil was clearly anxious to bolster the wild and promiscuous reputation of the Woodelves in every way he could.

He felt Barakhir's restlessness as he tossed his head and lipped the silver bit in his mouth, but Elrohir was still staring, thinking of that bright, fearless face flushed in passion, lips parted, long green eyes half closed in ecstasy, and as before, he saw gold and black coiled together, black hair, raven-silk, swirling through the gold like coloured inks. Almost he gasped then, almost he reached out. Instead a dark lust uncoiled in his belly, raised its head and its tongue flickered over its lips at the loveliness before him; begging to be taken, begging to be pounded hard, to be...he shuddered...

'My lord?' Legolas looked up at him in concern and Elrohir almost snarled. A breeze lifted the Mirkwood Elf's long pale gold hair and unbearably, pain lanced through Elrohir.

...and too late, the image of cornsilk hair, feverish blue eyes staring up, unrecognising and the whispered, hateful obscenities...fingernails that tore at his loathsome face... Horror seized him then and he squeezed closed his eyes and clenched his fist. Bile flooded his mouth and he could not bear it.

He was aware of Elladan looking at him and gentle concern in his eyes. A hand lay gently on his arm and cool blue suffused his tormented thoughts, soothed him. 'Come brother. There is nothing here but the phantasms of your mind, your dreams.' It was but a whisper and the gentle hand soothed him so he gritted his teeth and slid from his horse. He kept his back to Legolas and shook off Elladan.

The Mirkwood Elf looked away as if an idol had fallen before him. And it probably had, thought Elrohir, knowing well his reputation amongst younger warriors. He did not care. He had never asked for it. His reputation was based on vengeance for his mother's torment. It had frozen him like the Helcaraxë and the Mirkwood Elf would do well to keep clear of him.

tbc


	11. The Wager

Particular thanks to Anarithilen for working hard with me on the last bit. And to the lovely Mienpies who has given me two gorgeous pictures of Legolas, one at the end of the chapter Imladris and this one which I have posted on esteliel's, you have to google the following to get there: .de as it never shows up here, but which could just as easily go with any of the chapters, maybe its Legolas with Berensul, maybe it's Legolas at the end of this chapter after Gimli has gone to sleep.

Special thanks to to reviwers- it keeps me writing. Vanwa, Dimaranien, IsaDa, Raisinet, Guest, Debbie W, Thislittelpiggy, singvogel, SapphireThief, aRedBaroness, gginsc, Dawn (you never know- it's v hard to keep them apart!), iionly, melethen, melusine, freddie, karush (see above- VERY difficult- you'll like this chapter I think) and my fab Anar.

WARNINGS - this chapter. Violence and cruelty.

Chapter 11: Gimli's boots

Next morning, with their breath curling in the cold frost morning, Glorfindel despatched Legolas and Rhawion to scout eastwards, Aragorn and Elrohir to go south, and Gimli and Elladan to go further along the river bank. He and Amron searched the hills around the camp. He sent the Brethren west on their fast black horses, along the old road towards the Last Bridge.

It was early afternoon when Rhawion and Legolas stumbled across the Orcs.

They had been picking their way along the riverbank when they heard a shout, inhuman, harsh. Both froze and carefully melted back into the bushes that crowded to the edge of the river. Legolas gestured that he would go further along the river bank and see if he could spy anything and Rhawion was to wait and if he did not return to get the news to Glorfindel.

Legolas drew his hood over his bright hair and crept stealthily, silently along the shore, just beneath the green bushes and overhanging trees until he drew level with the noise. He guessed about twenty Orcs from the sounds but he lay on his belly and slowly crawled and wriggled forwards, edging forwards a bit at a time towards the camp.

He didn't see the feet until he was nose to toe. And froze. Closed his eyes so the gleam of them was hidden and dropped his head slightly so there were no features. He trusted his cloak would hide him but his heart was hammering in his chest and he slowed his breathing so the Orc would not hear him.

He lay still and silent for what felt like hours before a shout from away to his left drew the sentry away. Silently he slid from tree to tree and kept to the shadows. But when he returned to where he left Rhawion he found the Imladrian gone and he knew he had taken too long and the other Elf thought him taken.

He did not catch up with Rhawion for he dared not travel openly but kept to the shadows, the trees where he could, miles and miles until he was sure he was far from the Orc camp and there were no sentries, no patrols and then he ran, swiftly, along the river back to camp.

When he clambered down into the gorge and into the camp he found Glorfindel arming himself, strapping on his great sword and the Sons of Elrond mounted and ready to ride.

'Legolas! Right glad I am to see you safe.' Glorfindel strode over to greet Legolas, threw his arm over Legolas' shoulder and a look of intense relief on his fair face.

Rhawion clasped his arm and said, 'Glad I am that you were not taken. I thought...'

'A sentry came to stand right before me and I had to wait until he moved,' Legolas said in explanation. His face was flushed with excitement and he felt the beginning of the surge of energy he got before a battle. And Glorfindel's relief at his appearance was more than gratifying.

Rhawion had already told Glorfindel what he could and now the Elf lord turned to Legolas. He listened carefully, his face was very still; there were those who might have said he could have been carved from alabaster, or marble, thought Legolas - but stone was too cold and the life and joy in Glorfindel's beautiful face and eyes was so vital and warm.

'There are about thirty, perhaps forty Orcs, my lord. They are well armed and mustering. They have no prisoners that I could see.' He looked towards Rhawion for confirmation and the other Elf nodded briefly. 'They have a fire lit and have made light shelters beneath the deep undergrowth and trees. They seem to be settled there at least for the night. They have guards posted on four sides but nothing above.' He grinned expectantly. 'They are completely unaware of any danger from above.'

Glorfindel was smiling slightly and Amron snorted this time aloud.

'You think the birds will attack them?' Rhawion asked derisively.

'No, you think to attack them from the trees,' Glorfindel answered for him smiling. He moved off, waving and calling over the sons of Elrond.

Legolas leaned towards Rhawion, calculating what would goad the Imladrian to a wager. 'Are the Noldor too heavy and fat to climb?' he said with a glitter in his eyes.

Rhawion gave a shout of laughter and said, 'I will wager you I am quicker and take out more Orcs than you!'

Already Legolas was pulling out two thin knives from his belt and flicked them both in the air so they turned and turned and glinted nicely in the weak sun. He caught them both in one hand. 'I will wager these two for that nice hunting knife you have so carefully sheathed in your boot. It will ease me to know that it will not stick you when you fall over next.' His white teeth gleamed.

'And I will add to your wager,' Rhawion said eagerly. 'For I have seen Amron in battle. His sword will fell more than your bow.'

'I am hurt, Rhawion,' Legolas returned quickly, 'but will accept your wager. What do you lay?'

'Gold coin,' said Rhawion, digging into his tunic.

'It will please me to know I have liberated you from being so weighed down.'

'Master Gimli, perhaps you would be so good as to witness the wager?' called Rhawion, for it would not do to ask Glorfindel.

Gimli flashed a grin then and said, 'I will wager too that Glorfindel beats you all. This.' He pulled something from his own belt. A small wheel it looked like but at a press of his finger, tiny spikes shot out.

Legolas stared at it covetously. 'A roulette! I will do much to win that from you, dwarvish make too. What would you have?'

Gimli glanced up at him and considered. Then he said slowly, 'I would have you polish my boots.'

Legolas baulked for a moment. 'Polish your boots?' He was sure this would not be the wager had it been Amron or Rhawion.

'Yes, they are a mite mucky and will perish.'

Legolas thought for a moment for a quiet had descended on the other two Elves and they watched him closely. Legolas was no fool, he knew this might well be considered humiliation if he were beaten and had to polish to Dwarf's boots. But, he reasoned, only if he allowed it to be a humiliation. It was not as if polishing boots were a hardship, he decided. And he looked over at Glorfindel who feigned ignorance of what was taking place...Beating Glorfindel though? He did not think he could.

'So I polish your boots if you win or I get this roulette if I win?'

'Well if you do not think you can beat him, then do not take up the wager,' said the Dwarf and let the roulette flip between his fingers.

'I do not think I can beat him,' said Legolas slowly, wondering how much the Dwarf really wanted him to polish his boots.

Gimli narrowed his eyes calculating. 'If there were two roulettes? Is that tempting enough?'

'I do not think I can beat my lord Glorfindel,' Legolas repeated and there was a gleam in his eyes and then he said, 'but I can easily beat you, Master Gimli Gloinsson.'

The Dwarf's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. 'If you think you can, then you will not swerve from this little wager.'

'Done,' Legolas spat on his hand and held it out to shake. Gimli did likewise for it was an Esgaroth custom they both knew. Rhawion looked horrified and Amron raised his eyebrows.

'You will lose that bet,' came a warning voice but it was unclear to whom it was directed. Legolas turned to see Aragorn grinning at them both from where he sat on the ground whetting his great sword.

'He can take two out at a time with that axe,' said Aragorn quietly as he stood and fastened the sword-belt round his waist.

Legolas flashed a smile. 'There are only forty Orcs between the eight of us. I will shoot five in the first rush. He must really think I will polish his boots,' he said lifting an eyebrow and he scooped up his quiver and quickly ran a hand over the tops counting.

'He is very confident,' Aragorn looked at him sideways and loosed his sword. 'And his boots are very dirty.'

'Then let us hope I win.' Legolas grinned and shoved his quiver over his shoulder and fastened the straps, glad that the ice had broken with Aragorn. Aragorn laughed and followed him then to where Glorfindel stood waiting.

There was an air of expectancy and excitement as Glorfindel gave his orders.

Legolas and Amron were to skirt around to the far side of the encampment and to attack the rear once the Orcs were engaged, throw them into confusion and make them think there were many more Elves than there were but primarily to stop any Orcs escaping that way. Gimli gave a grin when he heard that Legolas was not in the frontal attack. Legolas said nothing. The sons of Elrond and Aragorn were to charge on their horses through the camp and Glorfindel and Rhawion to follow in their wake. There was of course the element of surprise in the cavalry attack and Glorfindel wanted as much noise and chaos to ensue as possible so the Orcs never had time to regroup and certainly never had time to work out how few of them there were.

0o0o

Legolas and Amron quickly made their way along the river bank and around the camp's location until they guessed they were south of the camp. Then they moved stealthily between the trees, nevertheless making their way swiftly to the edge of the camp.

The two Elves were quick to smell and hear Orcs approach. Legolas immediately sprang up onto a branch and pressed himself against the tree trunk as the pounding of their feet drew closer. He looked down to see Amron hiding behind a tree and gasped.

'Quick! Up here!' he hissed, leaning down and reaching for Amron's hand.

He hauled Amron up beside him, wondering that the Imladrian was so heavy and cumbersome. Amron clutched the tree trunk, breathing hard so Legolas quietly put his finger to his lips and they saw the first Orc come into view. Its lumbering, crooked gait was caused by a recent injury, Legolas realised. So they must have already attacked a settlement or travellers. Suddenly Amron's foot slipped and he lurched forwards. Legolas shot out his hand to grasp Amron's arm and steady him. His heart pounded in his chest and for the first time ever he wondered if they should have stayed on the ground and simply run. He pushed Amron back against the tree trunk and pulled his hood over his head and they held still, and watched the group pass beneath them.

The first limping Orc was followed by a second Orc, then third passed directly below the tree in which they hid. One spoke in its coarse growling tongue and while Amron covered his ears, Legolas tried to understand what it said. He could only pick out two or three words, srinkh, he thought meant 'gathering' and thought they must be speaking of the Orc encampment. But then he heard one laugh and say something about Uliima-zagh which he knew was what they called the High Pass over the Hithaeglir. He remembered the old bones he had seen on his trail and wondered briefly if he should return home a different way.

'Should we not shoot them now?' Amron whispered but Legolas shook his head.

'We could not guarantee one of them will not shout and alert the camp,' he said softly. He paused and then said, 'We could follow them, wait until they are far enough away to not alert the main group. We do not want them coming back.' He looked at Amron clinging to the tree trunk and chewed his lip for a moment. 'Perhaps I should go.'

Amron nodded and Legolas slid silently from branch to branch behind the Orcs so there was barely a ripple of leaf, barely a branch bent under his supple weight.

One looked up at what it thought was the swish of a branch until a green-fletched arrow went through his eye and he fell instantly without a sound. When the next fell, the other turned and one let out a hoarse shout that was stopped short with an arrow in the throat. Legolas leaped down from the branches and Amron joined him to kick at the heavy carcasses until they each rolled away from the path and into a shallow ditch nearby. Legolas slid his bow back over his shoulder and shoved a few fallen branches and leaves over them to hide them as much as possible in case other Orcs came along the path and were alerted to the presence of Elves.

He gave Amron a wide smile and bowed slightly. 'I hope you are counting, Amron.' The Imladrian gave him a wry look and held up three fingers for the number of Orcs, and then folded down two and left his middle finger up. Legolas laughed softly.

They stayed in the trees now and crept closer to the Orc encampment and this time Legolas could see the camp better. There was a fire-pit in the centre and the remains of something charred and black was on a spit. He did not look too closely. There were about thirty Orcs gathered mainly in small groups. They were all heavily armed as before but those supposedly on guard had been drawn away from the perimeter by something going on to one side and Legolas craned his neck to see.

Two big Orcs were squaring up to each other and growling, snarling, shouting at each other whilst others goaded them on.

He gave Amron a quick look and saw the anticipation in the other's eyes. They had only to wait for Glorfindel's signal.

It seemed an age in coming but Legolas reminded himself that they had a Man and a Dwarf with them and it must be expected that they would be slower. Amron fidgeted and suddenly his foot slipped. His flailing hand grabbed a weaker branch. There was a crack and the branch split from the tree. Like lightning, Legolas grabbed Amron and held him steady. They froze. Barely breathed.

An Orc turned its head in their direction. It stared into the trees for a moment. Legolas kept his hand silently on Amron's shoulder.

And then the Orc turned back.

There was a bloodthirsty shout from the two big Orcs fighting on the far side of the camp and a number of others closed in a little.

Below Legolas and near the perimeter of the camp, a smaller group of five Orcs crouched or knelt. The one closest to Legolas lifted its heads now and looked in the direction of the fight. Legolas silently urged it to go and look but it lifted its snout and snuffed the air. Then it turned its head towards the tree where Legolas and Amron were and its small eyes squinted into the afternoon sun. One of its companions growled something and it lifted itself up onto its haunches and stood looking into the trees. Legolas saw its hand go to its side and finger the heavy saber it carried. It took a step towards them and he felt Amron silently slide his own bow from his shoulder and nock an arrow. Legolas already had one trained on the Orc and silently begged Glorfindel to give the call.

The air was tense. Even the trees seemed to still and there was no wind at all.

All was silent save the noise of the Orc fight on the other side of the camp.

The Orc that stood looking and snuffling the air had something clutched in its hand, something that fluttered slightly. It was blue, like a child's dress. Legolas blinked and swallowed, resisted looking again at the fire-pit and the blackened carcass on the spit. He heard Amron choke back something as he too recognised what it was. Legolas clenched his teeth and slowly drew back his bow, sighting along it at the Orc.

There was a flash of something on the other side of the encampment, something silver that caught in the weak winter sun.

One of the Orcs in the small group below Legolas and Amron lifted its head and looked. It opened its mouth and there was a swoosh and both it and the Orc looking towards Legolas slowly toppled to the ground. The other three were on their feet now but three more arrows were in their necks or throats before they could cry out and then there was a tremendous battle cry and black horses burst from the trees and charged through the camp, straight for the bunched group of Orcs, flashing silver and blood. Orcs scrambled out of the way, scrabbled for sabers, for weapons, shouting and screaming as swords fell and arrows whooshed into the camp. Legolas' bow was singing and he leapt from one tree to the next, ever closer to the main group which was breaking into smaller groups, drawing sabers, scrambling in the dirt for weapons so easily discarded only moments before.

Arrows swooshed and plunged into one Orc after another. Legolas was aware of Amron shooting too and that Glorfindel and Gimli had joined the affray. Clanging swords and battle cries filled the air, shouting and screaming as one Orc fell after another.

There was a shout from nearby and Legolas turned to see three Orcs pounding towards him for they had realised they were being shot at from the trees. He glanced at Amron whose face was focused and deadly calm. He turned his head back to the oncoming Orcs, aimed and missed and cursed and aimed again as one fell. But the Orcs had formed into groups now and the element of surprise was gone; Orc archers were positioned now behind sacks and carcasses and were aiming at the Sons of Elrond and Aragorn, and Orcs were converging on Glorfindel. The Elf-lord was beaten down and on one knee wrestling his sword against one of the big Orcs.

Below Legolas there was snarling and the pounding of feet as Orcs charged towards the trees they were in. He loosed an arrow quickly and the big Orc fighting Glorfindel fell. But suddenly there were Orcs leaping up at him from the ground and one climbing towards him, knife between its sharp teeth.

He glanced at Amron and pushed his bow into his quiver and in the same movement drew his twin blades, leaping into the fray. Three Orcs converged on him immediately. Smoothly and barely breaking his stride, he swiped his blades across in front of him and then out. Two ugly heads fell to the ground and the other stopped grinning long enough for Legolas to pivot on one foot and bring one singing blade round to slice through its neck, the other slashed its belly open so entrails slipped out hot and steaming. Blood spattered over his face and tunic and soaked his hands. He glanced behind to see Amron struggling with the Orc that had climbed into the tree and began to reach for an arrow when there was a spray of blood and the Orc toppled slowly out of the tree. Legolas did not stop to salute Amron but bounded into the fight.

Aragorn was off his horse now and struggled with a huge Orc that was pounding his sword over and over until Legolas though this arm might break. But the Dwarf was there and swung his mighty axe clean through the Orc and it fell to its knees. Aragorn barely paused but turned to hack at another Orc and the Dwarf finished it off.

Legolas was aware of Glorfindel shining, sweeping his blade through the ranks of Orcs and then he saw the Sons of Elrond; a thunderous pounding of hooves and the darkness flowed around them, from them. Sunlight flashed on their blades and the runes ran molten silver on their swords, their gauntlets and shields against the sable of their cloaks, their horses, their long black silk hair. Legolas wanted to pause to watch the terrible beauty as their swords cut a swathe so the Orcs fell back gibbering and howling. The Sons of Thunder have come! They fled before the black horses and their riders.

Legolas spun and cut down one fleeing Orc with one blade and caught a second on the backstroke. Swift and precise was the key to the twin blades and he kicked out and slammed another Orc hard in the gut, brought one blade slashing down on its back and the other up through its throat. He was aware of a sweep of a great war axe nearby and instinctively stood back to back with the Dwarf and not single Orc passed them after that.

It was quickly over and the slaughter was great. The sun was already sinking below the Mountains and the ground was slippery with blood and gore, clots of blood and entrails strung out over the ground where the Brethren's' great swords had hacked the guts of their enemy. The axe inflicted even greater damage and the body of the Orcs killed by the Dwarf were many, great gouges in their flesh and limbs dangling. There was the smell of meat and blood, the iron tang on his tongue.

Suddenly there was a shout from Aragorn. All turned to see an Orc running hard away, as fast as it could through the half light up the slopes above the camp towards the river. Glorfindel grunted. 'Hells, that may summon help. This we can do without.'

Legolas swiftly strung his bow and reached behind him for one of his few remaining arrows. He sighted and let it fly. The Orc crumpled in a groaning heap and then tried to struggle on. Legolas strung another arrow but someone blocked out the light for a moment and he looked up to see one of the sons of Elrond. He reined in his great black charger and looked down at Legolas.

'Leave this one alive. I would leave a sign that we were here.'

Legolas frowned and looked up into the darkened eyes of the Son of Elrond. The nobility of his face was shadowed and Legolas thought the darkly dripping blade he held seemed almost to hiss. He took a step back, the hairs on his neck on end and the blood seemed to be absorbed into the blade rather than run off the steel.

Legolas stared. Then looking up he asked, 'Would you leave it struggling and howling enough to raise others?'

The black horse shook its head and the silver bit jingled. Its rider lifted his head and looked out to where the Orc writhed and howled, his grey eyes distant. 'Yes. Until it howls no more.'

Legolas said nothing but watched as the rider cantered easily through the destroyed camp and hefted a lance from amongst the abandoned weaponry. Then he turned the black horse in a tight circle and cantered up the slope towards the Orc which raised its hands and crawled away though the rider followed. He dismounted then and for a moment Legolas could not see what he was doing but he seemed to be driving the lance into the ground. He was aware that Glorfindel had turned away and his head was bowed. Then Legolas heard the gurgling wail of the Orc that went on and on and on.

He took a step forwards but Aragorn put his hand on Legolas' arm and he looked up to meet the Man's serious, troubled gaze. 'Let it be,' he said and Legolas looked back up the slope but did not move.

0o0o0

Gimli looked up to see that dusk had fallen by the time they had piled up the bodies of the Orcs, and he watched as Glorfindel kindled a branch and thrust it into the pyre.

'So we will send a beacon into the Mountains as a warning,' Glorfindel said grimly and the firelight shone red and gold on his face, made him wild and savage.

The coarse hair of the dead Orcs ignited and flared. In the darkness sparks flew up into the air and the flames leaped suddenly and roared. The pile of carcasses shifted and for a moment, the Orcs looked like they writhed, burning alive. There was the beginning of a smell that made Gimli feel nauseous, of charred and burning meat. He wiped his brow with his hand and turned away. He felt the battle fervour bleed from his bones and was weary now.

"Elrohir, Elladan, keep watch over the fire first,' Glorfindel asked and one of the sons of Elrond nodded. 'We will post two watches, one here and another on the camp.'

Glorfindel looked over the small group, assessing them, and then he broke off twigs and held them in his fist to draw for the watches. Gimli drew the shortest twig so he would be watching with the son of Thranduil, he thought. At least they would not to be posted at the fire. It was a horrific sight. Aragorn and Amron both grimaced when they drew the second watch at the carrion pyre, and that left Rhawion and Glorfindel taking the second watch at the camp. Glorfindel made no mention of a third watch. Gimli sighed and thought longingly of Imladris, with those enormous comfortable beds, rare red meat, not bad ale and good songs by a roaring log fire, and not a fire made of Orc carrion, he thought to himself.

Glorfindel looked as though he had not even broken stride once, not during the battle nor in the hard work of building the massive pyre. Only a light sheen was on his skin and his cheeks were slightly flushed. Gimli was not fanciful but for one moment he wished he could have stood and watched Glorfindel in battle. Not that he would ever admit to it but there was a fluidity to Elves' movements that Gimli, above all else a craftsman, wished to etch clearly in his memory.

Their camp was beside the river on a small pebbly beach at the foot of cliffs so there was a good vantage point immediately above the camp and yet sheltered and safe from prying eyes. A good spot, Gimli thought approvingly. The river was fast-flowing and fed the Bruinen. Gimli liked its white-green colour. Good for pots, he thought practically, digging his finger into the damp white clay soil and examining it with approval.

They cleaned themselves up as best they could in the dark and standing in the shallows of the river. Glorfindel allowed a small fire and they ate in silence. Gimli wondered if this was the time to call in the bets but no one seemed to have the appetite for it; every now and again there was a horrible cry of agony from the impaled Orc. Its gibbered speech in the Black Tongue made the Imladrian Elves cringe. Gimli noticed it did not have that effect on the Elf from Mirkwood, instead the Elf rose quickly to his feet and walked down to the river. No one said anything or watched him go.

Once Gimli had finished eating, Glorfindel gave him a nod and the Dwarf hefted his war axe and climbed out of the bowl that held their camp. There was a rocky outcrop where he would take the watch. He stood on the good stone, granite, he thought to himself seeing the glints in the moonlight, shot through with quartz. He stamped his foot on the good, solid rock. A good place to watch.

Below him the river wound a silver trail and he could hear its rushing through the gorge, over boulders, could hear the shift of pebbles and the grinding of the rocks. Further down river, the long spire of smoke and flames that was Orc pyre gave a hellish glow to the night and as he looked, there was a faint, exhausted howl.

He breathed a heavy sigh. Seasoned warrior that he was and witness to much slaughter, this was an unexpected and, he thought, unnecessary cruelty. He had not expected Elves to be so brutal. No matter that they found the small charred bones in the fire, the tattered blue cloth with daisies embroidered on it.

Gimli shifted and rested the head of his great war axe on the ground, leaned on the haft. He looked in the direction of the dying Orc and then back. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and turned to see strange green eyes gleaming in the starlight. He jumped and suddenly brought his axe up before him when a smooth voice said, 'Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.'

It was the Mirkwood Elf. He had been here all the time, sitting silently on the rocky outcrop, watching Gimli and saying nothing! He felt his beard prickle. He knew the Elves in Mirkwood well enough; he did not like their unwavering, unblinking stare, their intense stillness so you were fooled into thinking they were statues. And then the sudden burst of movement and song or silly laughter.

'It will take more than that to startle a Dwarf of Erebor,' he said, determined not to give in and let this Elf think he was intimidated. The long green eyes did not blink until the Elf turned his head slightly and from where he sat upon the rock, looked down the slope to where a dark blur writhed and lifted its head in a whimpering cry of agony.

The Elf turned back to Gimli and for a moment, Gimli thought the smooth mask slipped and something like distaste flickered over the Elf's face. There was a long pause then and the Elf looked down as if troubled. Gimli saw his chest rise and fall, as if he sighed but so quietly it slipped between his lips with not a sound.

The Elf looked up then and Gimli saw the Moon reflected in his strange green eyes. Slowly he reached behind him and drew an arrow. 'I hear something, Master Gimli. Do you?' he asked.

It was only then that Gimli realised his bow was strung and he held the arrow loosely against the string as if waiting.

It was strange, just the two of them, one sitting, one standing on the hard granite that glittered in the moonlight. Not a breath of wind. Not a sound...except even Gimli could hear the breathless gasps of the Orc.

Slowly Gimli met the Elf's unwavering gaze, and he nodded. It was time to end this.

'I do, Thranduilsson' he replied because he could not remember the Elf's name, just his father's. 'And it may well be dangerous so I bid you shoot it.' He paused then, remembering the fury and fire in the eyes of Elrond's sons. It was their trophy after all that the Elf would be denying them. And they could be dangerous. One of the brothers was molten fire, moving, spitting, destructive. 'Ridding us of this one danger however, may well bring another.'

There was silence and he guessed the Elf was thinking of the Sons of Elrond too. 'I am not afraid.' And then, not mocking but curious, the Elf asked, 'Are you?'

'Of course not!' he almost spluttered and then he saw the Elf smile. 'I was merely thinking of you and that you might need protecting.' Gimli stuck out his beard and crossed his arms in front of him.

'And you would protect me?' the Elf asked and he could hear the amusement in his voice.

'Do you need it?'

'I do not think so.'

'I think you will,' Gimli was amused himself now, for Dwarves love riddles and games and puzzles and he realised he was enjoying himself.

The Elf's teeth gleamed white in the dark. 'A wager then.'

'A wager,' he agreed. 'Let us make it the same as before. My boots are mucky, from the blood of the many orcs I killed,' he said. 'Although I note that yours are clean as a pin.'

'That is because I kill elegantly and do not stumble over the many, many Orcs that I killed,' the Elf replied easily. 'But because of that, I will ask for your roulettes as you offered before.'

'Very well. If I have to protect you, you will clean my boots. If I do not, I will give you my roulettes.'

'Agreed.'

The Elf smoothly rose to his feet. He lifted his bow and fitted the arrow. Moonlight shone down on them and Gimli saw how it gleamed in the Elf's long hair, reflected in his eyes, silvered the stone and frosted the grass.

'You will not hit it from here,' Gimli said, resting the head of his great war axe on the ground and folding his arms over the haft.

There was a swoosh and then nothing.

'You have not hit it,' Gimli said in disbelief.

There was a sigh from the Elf and then he said, 'Would you care to make a wager?'

Gimli found his fingers twisting the ends of his beard and deliberately put his hands around the haft of his axe again, to stop himself. He was no fool though and this time he said, 'I do not wish you to work your fingers to the bone. Polishing my boots will be enough.'

The Elf laughed softly.

They did not speak again but watched as the Moon crossed the sky and stars wheeled overhead. He watched the Elf curiously and there were no more whimpers or sounds from the Orc. He remembered the Elf's name. It was Legolas.

0o0o

The Moon was high and the stars bright when Gimli heard soft sounds and Legolas shifted and rose fluidly to his feet. He was taller than Gimli remembered and the stars and moonlight seemed to catch on his hair, in his eyes. He thought there might have even been a faint glimmer...but surely that was his tired imagination? Then first Rhawion appeared and then Glorfindel climbed onto the rock and there was no doubt in Gimli's mind that Glorfindel had an aura about him that if he didn't glow, he should have done. His strong noble face was lit as if he beheld some great wonder and Gimli knew he was staring.

'Go and rest,' said Glorfindel and Gimli shook himself; what nonsense was this? He was spending too much time amongst Elves and it was making him fanciful.

He followed Legolas back down into the camp and rolled himself up in his blanket. Then he reached over and snagged Glorfindel's; after all, he did not need it and it was still warm.

He slept deeply, feeling the bones of the Earth beneath him, the good clean soil and listened to the sounds of stone as the river scraped and rolled small pebbles grinding against each other to make the smooth clay he knew was buried beneath the grass. He dreamt of a white city hidden in the mountains, where fountains played and molten jewels cunningly encased in marble and carved like trees and rivers...

0o0o

Gimli awoke abruptly to the sound of voices raised in anger. His hand immediately went to his small throwing axe and his fist tightened around it before he even opened his eyes. When he did blink his eyes open, he saw the sons of Elrond standing over Legolas, voices raised and eyes flashing in fury.

Legolas was sitting up, leaning back on his hands and his long hair fell down his back and pooled on the ground. One of the brothers threw something at Legolas, who caught it. An arrow, Gimli realised, and he was on his feet, axe in hand. The other son of Elrond had one hand on his brother's chest and was talking to him urgently, but he seemed to take no notice and glared down at Legolas, furious, incandescent. Gimli shook his head, this was exactly what he had expected.

'Elrohir! Daro!' said the one with his hand on the other's chest so Gimli knew this one was Elladan and the angry one was Elrohir.

Legolas looked away as if completely unbothered and pulled his hair over his shoulder, not even looking at Elrohir.

Elrohir shouted something, crackling and sparking like fire and Gimli wished he understood what was being said and had paid more attention to Bombour when he tried to teach him Sindarin.

Legolas picked up the arrow that had been thrown down and looked at it as if he were examining it carefully. Then he looked up and nodded in agreement with whatever Elrohir had said and shrugged nonchalantly. Infuriated, Elrohir shoved his brother back out of the way, and with fists clenched as if to stop himself from reaching for a weapon, he took another step towards Legolas so he was almost standing on him and Legolas had to strain his neck to look up as Elrohir shouted furiously at him. Spittle flew from his lips.

Suddenly another voice barked an order. Glorfindel strode into the camp and over to the sons of Elrond. He shoved Elrohir in the chest, pushed him back, and spoke loudly, demanding. There was more shouting, accusation from Elrohir who pointed at Legolas and then gesticulated towards the arrow. But Legolas remained sitting, and did not speak even though Glorfindel turned to him with such sorrow in his eyes that it took Gimli aback.

Suddenly Elrohir turned to Gimli. 'At the least he must have left his post to do this!' he cried. 'Tell me, for how long did you let him out of your sight?'

Gimli frowned and walked slowly over to them, knowing that when dealing with Elves it was best to walk slowly, appear unthreatening whilst keeping your hand on your axe and your finger on your throwing knife. Just in case. 'Why are you asking?' he said carefully.

'This!' Elrohir reached down and snatched up the green fletched arrow from where Legolas had placed it and thrust it towards Gimli. 'This was in the heart of the Orc I left as a warning.' He turned back to Legolas. 'He left his post to shoot it!'

'I did not leave my post.' Legolas said from where he sat.

'You must have! No one could shoot that distance in the dark.' Elrohir poured out his scorn and anger. 'You must have left your post and taken it upon yourself to silence the Orc because it was disturbing you. Typical of Thranduil's folk. You could not kill your own but you can sneak off watch to put an arrow through an Orc.'

The air suddenly changed and became dangerous. Legolas rose slowly to his feet, saying something in his own tongue that was low and charged. Gimli saw that his fists too were clenched, so hard his knuckles were white. Whatever he said did nothing to calm things and Glorfindel said something to Legolas which he ignored and stepped around Glorfindel, closer to Elrohir. His eyes were hard and glittered. Glorfindel moved to keep between them and Gimli could see that only the respect they both had for Glorfindel held them apart, like a thin veneer, and at any moment, even that would shatter.

'He did not leave his post.' Gimli interjected, letting his voice roll beneath the noise, and as he knew they would, all ceased and looked at him. 'He did not leave his post for the whole watch. He stood with me on that rocky outcrop and did not leave it. And at the end of our watch he came back down here with me. He has not moved since.'

Elladan stepped in front of his brother and put his hand on his shoulder and spoke softly in their own tongue.

'How dare you challenge me!' Elrohir glared at Legolas, ignoring his brother, ignoring Gimli. The air seethed around him almost tangibly and Gimli thought he might explode. Like hot flames, molten rock, seething, moving, consuming, Gimli thought, whereas Legolas was still, like ice, his lovely face like a statue. But Gimli did not think the Woodelf was cold, not at all.

Gimli paused and thought for a moment. Smiling secretly to himself then, he stooped to pick up his boots. He took a step forwards and simply dropped his boots at the feet of the Woodelf. 'There,' he said and could not help a little smugness. 'I think you will find that I have won,' he said simply, looking up at Legolas.

Slowly as if reluctant to draw his gaze from the son of Elrond, Legolas looked down at the boots at his feet. Then he raised his head to stare at Gimli. His mouth was slightly open and Gimli grinned, showing his hard white teeth.

'That was the wager,' he added and drew one of the beautiful little roulettes from his belt and with his forefinger he spun its wheel. Light glinted off it, sparks flew, the razor edge hissed as it cut the air. He flicked its bronze etched centre and the blades opened smoothly, like silk; lethal scything blades. He let it glint in the firelight and smiled as if he were gloating. He waited for Legolas' reaction. 'And this is what you have lost. Again.'

And he was not disappointed for suddenly Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise and his face softened. He tipped his head back and laughed, such a merry sound.

Glorfindel looked over his shoulder at them both in surprise.

Gimli quirked an eyebrow and gave a pleased smile, for he thought Legolas had proved his worth in that reaction, acknowledging that he had been outwitted by the Dwarf, and was delighted by it.

Elrohir stared for a moment at Legolas and then with a cry of anger, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the camp, his brother following in his wake. Glorfindel watched them leave, and then turned away, his face full of compassion and sorrow.

Legolas sat back down on his blanket and gave Gimli the biggest grin he had ever seen on an Elf.

He felt his own mouth twitch but pulled his beard instead and pulled the blanket over his head. 'Don't wake me up again with your lover's tiffs,' he growled and fell straight to sleep.

When he awoke the next morning his boots were beside him, polished and as shiny as a bright new penny.

tbc

ffnet keeps deleting any other wb addresses but if you googl followed by efiction, then dot then esteliel then dot then de and find me under ziggy, you can see Mienpies gorgeous Legolas pics. Thank you Mienpies.


	12. Phellanthir

This chapter is especially for Mienpies and Alpha Ori- Happy Birthday, Alpha.

Beta: As always, without Anar this would be so much less.

Notes: albai: Orcish word for Elves. (not canon- my word)

Chapter 11: Phellanthir

Inevitably there was a lingering tension in the camp after the argument between Legolas and the Sons of Elrond, but Legolas told himself he did not care. He threw back his blanket and sat up. Something metallic fell out of his blanket and clinked against his knives.

Bending his head, he saw a small silver wheel, chased with bronze and with a cunning lock that he knew if pressed, tiny blades would slide soundlessly from their hidden groove. Gimli's roulette. He grinned and tossed it in the air once, and catching it between his fingers, carefully slid it into a concealed pocket in his belt.

He had been astonished by the Dwarf last night and looked over to where Gimli still slept, completely unaware it seemed of the breaking of dawn and the movement of the Elves.

Gimli was the only one still asleep. Rhawion was nowhere in sight but his weapons and blanket were left untidily near the fire, Glorfindel's great sword was leaning against a tree but of Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond there was no sign. Their horses were gone. Legolas could not say he was sorry. Elrohir had made obvious his disdain for Legolas even before the battle with the Orcs, and any admiration he had had for Elrohir Elrondion was quite gone. Instead there was a sour taste of his cruelty. Legolas did not believe it could have been Elrohir who had passed him that night in Imladris; he decided it must have been Elladan who had made him swoon.

Amron was on breakfast duty and grumpily stirring something that smelled...Legolas cocked his head to one side and tried to identify it. Herby, he decided. Fishy. If Amron was cooking, whatever it was it would be delicious.

He scooped up a couple of water skins and made his way down to the river. The air was cold and his breath misted like the smoke the Man and Dwarf were so fond, he thought.

He crouched at the edge and looked at the cloudy green-white water, wondering if it was good to drink when he felt a prickling on the back of his neck and glanced upwards. There silhouetted on the cliff above him, was a dark figure. The wind blew hard and cold up there on the cliff, swirling a sable cloak and raven-black hair. Elrohir.

Legolas wondered if Elrohir was alone up there or if Aragorn and Elladan were with him. Feeling the uncomfortable weight of Elrohir's stare, he wondered if this is how all Men felt under an elven gaze. The hairs on the back of his neck raised like hackles on a dog.

Pointedly he ignored Elrohir, and deciding not to risk the cloudy water, stood and stretched nonchalantly in the weak sunlight. He felt the gaze sharp and intent between his shoulder blades but did not look up again. Then he slowly slung the straps of the water-skins over his shoulder and returned, swinging his arms carelessly and whistling loudly. He walked back to the camp and scooped up any empty water skins he could find.

Amron saw him and pointed up a small gully. 'Water's up there. You may as well make yourself useful. It's going to be difficult enough today as it is,' he said glumly, turning back to his cooking pot to give it a stir. 'Let's hope Glorfindel sends the Brethren on their way and we aren't keeping you all apart with our blades.'

Legolas shrugged again and strode up the narrow path to find a clear spring that gurgled from the rock and into a small stream. He did not doubt his own actions; no Woodelf would have left even an Orc or Spider to suffer needlessly, no matter the hatred between them. And Laersul would never have allowed it, he thought. He wondered why Glorfindel tolerated it.

Trees shaded the spring and ferns grew around it and he listened to the insects slowly, sleepily chirring beneath the bark and in the undergrowth a blackbird hopped about, turning over the mulch of leaves in sharp jerks in search of food. He squatted beside the spring and dipped a water skin into the cold, clear water, remembering that Berensul had told him, that Elrohir Elrondion had lost all his mirth, all his love, all his joy, and relentlessly pursued vengeance... That he did not love... That for him, there was only vengeance. Legolas filled first one, then another water skin, and wondered if he or Laersul or Thalos could ever be have been the same. He remembered too the bones he had passed on his journey to Imladris, and the tattered scrap of blue cloth clutched in the hand of the Orc, the small bones.

Legolas paused, head bowed, staring unseeing at the pebbles that shifted and moved in the fast flowing water, the deep moss and ferns around the spring. And then it struck him again...

...standing amongst the twisted trees, bow taut, arrow drawn against his cheek, fingers ready to fly open...and ahead of him, a crowd of Orcs jeering and calling, too many. And suddenly between them he just glimpsed an Elf, his face white and screaming, his eyes squeezed shut, and a glint of steel caught. Naurion. There was a spear being shoved slowly, slowly into Naurion's twitching body but not quite enough to kill and his hands clasped and opened like he prayed, and the steel shaft thrust in and out like a rape...There was a clear shot...and from the corner of Legolas' eye he saw Laersul surrounded and down. without thought, without pause, he loosed the arrow and turned back...and then Naurion was gone, under a seething mass of Orcs like black beetles swarming and there was cold, freezing his scalp...

Legolas pushed himself suddenly to his feet and stood looking down into the cold clear water unseeing. Elrohir's words the night before tore their way out of his heart. 'It seems you can hit an Orc to give it mercy, but you cannot give mercy to one of your own,' he had sneered. It was true. Legolas' hand crept to his heart and plucked at the green sueded fabric of his tunic as if he could pluck out the pain and cast it away.

He moved his head as if he might free himself of the memory, shake it loose and let it fly away in the wind that murmured through the dead leaves. Turning his head, he looked North towards Imladris, knowing the borders here were unbreached, and he wondered if the brothers' cruelty had strengthened the Elves here. It was what Elrohir had said in that furious exchange the night before. 'No wonder Thranduil cannot hold his borders with such weak stomachs. They say you are more dangerous, less wise. Dangerous perhaps only to your own. Or Dwarves,' he had snarled with a glance towards Gimli who had just risen to his feet and stood braced as if against a storm. And indeed, that was how it felt, Legolas reflected; he had felt buffeted by the storm of Elrohir's rage, like a crimson wave had roiled and surged around him.

Slowly he walked back to the camp. Glorfindel was there and gave Legolas an appraising look. Legolas said nothing and simply dropped the water skins near Amron and then stooped to roll up his blanket. He mentally braced himself for the scolding he would have got from Laersul and readied himself for any punishment to be meted out, wondering if Glorfindel would make him apologise, back down, retract...

Glorfindel buckled his vambraces and slid his hands over them, smoothing the suede of his dark blue tunic that was almost grey. He looked up at Legolas as he did. 'I have asked Aragorn, Elrohir and Elladan to meet with the Dunedain. They will have to have news of the Orc camp. It bodes ill if they do not know of it.' Of the night's events however, he said nothing.

Legolas felt a strange mixture of disappointment and relief knowing that he would not be in Elrohir's company now. Glorfindel pulled his dark grey cloak over his shoulders and fastened it with a beautifully wrought brooch, a golden harp, its fine wire strings twined about with flowers and stars. Legolas glanced upwards to where the dark figure had been standing, but he had gone.

'I think today you, Legolas, will go with Gimli. Amron and Rhawion will search higher up,' Glorfindel continued, pulling the cloak about himself so the brooch was hidden. 'Search the river banks thoroughly and report back to me if you find anything or sense anything.' He stooped to pick up his great sword and buckled the heavily jeweled scabbard that Legolas would normally have thought ostentatious but which seemed only appropriate for such a warrior as Glorfindel, and then turned to Amron.

'Elrohir and Elladan will meet us further downriver at Phellanthir in a few days. We will have gone as far as we need I think. Then we will return to Imladris.'

He nodded courteously to his men and then strode off towards the river bank, great bow slung over his shoulder and sword at his hip. Clearly he was hunting alone that day.

So no scolding? Legolas thought surprised and watched Glorfindel as he disappeared amongst the willows that leaned over the river, trailed their leaves across the still water.

'No good staring after him like some love-sick girl.' Amron handed him a bowl and Legolas took it from him almost unthinking. 'He is the noblest and best amongst us. But his heart is closed. Many have tried knocking on it but closed it remains.' He smiled kindly at Legolas' astonished face. 'Don't look so shocked. Everyone knows in MIrkwood you keep to the Laws and Customs.' He shrugged and looked at Legolas appraisingly. 'But even you are not going to be enough to tempt him.'

Legolas was outraged. 'I am not mooning after Glorfindel! I admire him, respect him. He is the most courageous and noble Elf I have ever met!'

Amron lifted an eyebrow meaningfully and Legolas stared. Then he laughed and shook his head slightly, smiling to himself. 'I do not know myself,' he declared. 'It is true I am besotted. But not in that way, I assure you. I do not imagine he would even look at me when he could have anyone. There are such noble lords and ladies in Imladris.' He smiled ruefully.

Amron smiled back warmly and then scooped a ladleful of broth from his cooking pot and plopped it into a bowl. He handed it to Legolas and looked at him for a moment. 'Legolas, you are not at all what I had imagined. I have become quite fond of you.'

'And I have become fond of you too, Amron.' Legolas tasted the broth and smacked his lips. 'Particularly your cooking; your name will be sung in the Halls of the King.' He spooned the rich broth into his mouth.

'As I think your name will be sung in the Halls of Imladris,' Amron laughed and Legolas grimaced. 'Ah, I was not thinking of that, but do not repent your deed. It was well done and it is to my shame that it was not done by my hand.'

'Elrohir will not find to easy to forgive,' Legolas said but he was still unrepentant. 'But I will never see him again after we return to Imladris and in spite of your songs, he will forget even my name,' he said. But in spite of the relief he felt with that knowledge, he felt a sudden yawning gap in his chest as if he had lost something precious. He frowned, wondering and thought it must be homesickness.

I will be home again soon, he told himself, and what a tale I will have to tell. They will say in the Wood, he thought, Legolas was there when the Ring was uncovered. And he would tell of his joining Glorfindel in the hunt for the Nazgul. He smiled and thought he could even add a few details, his gaze drifting towards the place Glorfindel's mighty sword had leaned only minutes before.

Amron glanced up and looked fondly at Legolas as he scraped his spoon around the bowl. 'I do not think Elrohir will forget your name. And I will not.' He laughed. 'You have any number of nice trinkets to remember us by,' he said.

Legolas grinned and said nothing but wiped his bowl clean with a piece of bread.

'I hope that you have hit a losing streak.' Amron brandished the small knife Legolas had won at dice the previous evening and Amron had to borrow back to fillet the trout he had caught that morning. 'I see you have polished Master Gimli's boots. Does that mean you have admitted he slew more Orcs than you?'

Legolas chewed the last piece of bread and swallowed and Amron continued, 'I did see him with his axe. I have never seen a Dwarf in battle before. I admit, it is impressive and I am glad he is on our side.'

'I admit nothing,' said Legolas with a smile. He looked into his empty bowl and Amron dropped another dollop of stew in it. 'You can give me the rest,' said Legolas. 'Dwarves eat like birds.'

Amron laughed for he knew differently. 'You polished his boots out of kindliness then?'

Legolas laughed. 'I am a very kind person,' he said and wiped the last of his bread around his bowl as Rhawion appeared from the riverbank having completed his morning ablutions.

'Rhawion, you have missed breakfast with the hours you have spent in the river making yourself beautiful. There is no one to see you but us and the Nazgul,' Amron called to him cheerfully.

'I at least have some decent raw materials to work on, unlike some of you who only your mothers could love,' Rhawion said. He stood next to Legolas and looked at him. 'Let's see if we can't get some Mirkwood gold out of you this evening. Amron and I think you are on a losing streak. Gimli's boots are like glass!'

Amron glanced up amused. 'He is saying nothing, Rhawion. Do not waste your breath on him. But we will have plenty of chances to get our trinkets back on the way home,' he said reassuringly. 'We head for Phellanthir. Until then, lackwit-lackmoney, we have a Nazgul to find.' Amron stood and emptied the contents of the pot into two remaining bowls and thrust one at Rhawion who sat cross legged beside Legolas to eat. The other he nestled carefully in the embers of the fire to keep warm for Gimli, who still snored happily.

At the mention of Phellanthir, Rhawion made a face. 'I do not like Phellanthir,' he said grimly. 'It is a ruined and haunted place. Why do we go there?'

'It is at the end of the road, that's why. And our lord Glorfindel says so.' Amron lifted his cooking pot and checked it was empty. He scraped around it with a spoon and, clearly noticing how much Legolas appreciated his cooking, dropped the last bit into Legolas' empty bowl. 'Then back to Imladris and my lovely Felwen warming my soft bed.'

Rhawion grinned conspiratorially at Legolas; Amron talked endlessly of his Felwen, the most beautiful maiden to have ever graced Arda according to her besotted lover, with the smoothest hair, her eyes like stars or sapphires, breasts like milk and skin like honey, her tears like pearls or crystals. Rhawion had confided in Legolas that she was truly a feather-brain who dripped about the House strumming the harp with Lindir. Rhawion had also muttered some very disparaging comments about Lindir and his preferences. Legolas did not much care, but he had said that Lindir and Berensul were 'close' in a way that suggested disapproval. Legolas was hardly one to disapprove of anyone's proclivities or preferences, for he had so many himself but he wondered if the disapproval extended to himself and decided it did not, for both Rhawion and Amron were cheerful and friendly.

'What is Phellanthir?' Legolas asked instead, finishing the last bit of broth and licking his spoon clean. He really would miss Amron's cooking when he had to resort to his own meager skills on the road home. He looked inside his bowl for he would have licked that clean too but it was not worth it.

'It is at the tip of the Angle.' Rhawion told him. 'There is an old abandoned watchtower at the tip, the Arrow we call it. In the days of Eregion, it was the third city. Celebrimbor had a residence there but all that was destroyed when Eregion was taken by Sauron. Then in the time of the Kings, there was a thriving and busy port but it was abandoned and left until all that remained was the watchtower. It linked with Amon Sul. And then even that has gone. It is ruined now.'

It was then that Gimli stirred and Amron placed the last bowl beside him. He sat up and stroked his beard and scowled at the Elves who all turned to stare at him. Then he pulled his blanket about his body and climbed to his feet. He did not speak but they had become used to his ways and knew better than to speak to him or greet him until he had had a pipe and a cup of something to warm his bones. But when he finally struggled to his feet and went to pull on his shiny boots, he smiled and stroked his long, silky beard.

0o0o0

It took them two more days to reach Phellanthir. They kept the Bruinen close on their left now and Glorfindel drove them hard, searching in the fens and marshes, in the rushes and amongst the boulders. Often he gave the lead to Legolas and if Legolas knew there was nothing, could feel it in the air, Glorfindel listened to him and moved them on quickly as if he were driven by some purpose they did not know.

The Moon had already risen on the evening of the first day when Glorfindel took Legolas with him to climb a high tor; its great granite boulders seemed to have erupted from the land, tumbled down the slopes. They stood gazing out across the treetops to the silver ribbon that was the river. Far ahead of them on the horizon, still miles away but within a day's march, was rocky outcrop. Like teeth the ruined towers and spires rose up against the ragged sky

' That is Phellanthir,' said Glorfindel and his voice was full of regret and nostalgia. 'This was a fair place once.' He sighed. 'The third city of Eregion. The smiths here cast jewels and melted them,* swirled them through mithril and chased them with gold and silver. They built those towers and palaces fair and high.' He lifted his hand and pointed towards the ruins that were silhouetted against the evening skies. 'Celebrimbor was king in Ost-in-Edhel, the last great Noldor kingdom. Almost the last of the Fëanorians. Damn them and their pride.' But it was said with no passion or ire but unutterable sadness. Even Legolas knew the story of Fëanor, though Thranduil told it with unforgiving fire and venom.

For a moment the Moon shone on Glorfindel's face and turned him marble pale and he was so still, so lost in memory that he could have been carved from the marble he resembled. 'I failed them too. Came too late. The city was already sacked and Elrond and I could do naught but watch the smoke and flames...' An expression of inconsolable grief was on his lovely face and Legolas bowed his head. He found himself leaning towards the elven warrior who had dwelt in Gondolin, now sacked and drowned, and Legolas half-closed his eyes, listening...he could hear the screams, smell the smoke and stench of burning flesh. He saw a host of elven steeds and knights, helms gleaming in the sun as they galloped along the banks of the Bruinen to Ost-in-Edhel's aid. Too late, too late...and a glorious white horse at the front, turned. The rider lifted his visor to see better the burning city, the crumbling towers blasted and razed, saw it all with his piercing blue eyes that had seen more than any Elf living. The snap of bright pennants streaming in the wind and the pound of horses' hooves...too late, too late...

Legolas leaned towards Glorfindel, lost in memory...and was suddenly aware of the brightness of the moonlight, how deep blue was the darkening sky. He heard the land around him stretch and sigh as it turned to sleep, to winter.

The glint of moonlight on Glorfindel's hair, his lonely nobility and the awful loss ached and Legolas almost brushed against him, almost took his hand and pressed it against his heart and vowed he would never be lonely again if only...

But instead he smiled, remembering Amron's amusement at his own besotted worship. Berensul's warnings about the Noldor sensibilities returned to him and he would not for all the world wish to lose Glorfindel's good opinion of him when he had already thrown away the Sons of Thunder.

So he simply stood by whilst Glorfindel grieved for the glory of ancient days, for the House of Fëanor finally, utterly destroyed.

0o0o

Even swifter then, Glorfindel drove them. He abandoned the searches on the riverbank and they simply headed straight over the Angle and towards the Arrow, Phellanthir.

Night was falling as they approached and the moon rose once again and rode above thickening clouds that tore wraith-like across the star-scattered sky. Ahead of them the stony outcrop raised itself above the woods and marshes. Tall ruined towers pierced the sky, like blackened fangs. Legolas recoiled; it was indeed a ruined and haunted place.

They did not enter the walls of the tower and set their camp at a distance from the hill upon which it stood. While Gimli laid the fire and with clever, square hands coaxed it into life, Legolas caught an unwary rabbit and as Amron crumbled herbs into boiling water, Legolas prepared the rabbit, and dropped fillets of meat into the water. Supper was a friendly affair, rabbit stew, bread and roots that Rhawion dug up with the tip of a knife and dropped into Amron's lap. Amron brushed off the mud and placed them carefully in amongst the stones of the fire and they were sweet and soft when Legolas peeled the skin off. Glorfindel had left them to scout the Tower and would take no one with him.

After they ate, Gimli pulled out his pipe and puffed quietly on the edge of the camp. He was careful to let the smoke trail off into the air. 'Over there in the Mountains is Khazad-dûm. The ancient glory of the Dwarves.' His voice was low, resonant, like the song of stone and the deep chambers beneath the earth. 'Balin is there. I hoped to have news of him 'ere we returned to Erebor. He has retaken the halls from the goblins and it will be as it was in Durin's time. The halls will be paved again with gold. The secrets of the mines will be again uncovered.'

Legolas was still and listened to the longing in his voice and thought Gimli shared the same deep emotion that pierced Glorfindel's heart.

'It was said that the gates were always open,' Amron said quietly and Legolas turned to stare, wondering if Amron might have been one who rode with Elrond and Glorfindel to Celebrimbor's aid. 'There was much trade between the Dwarves and Elves.' At this, Rhawion stirred slightly but did not speak and Amron continued, 'Narvi and Celebrimbor forged the gates together and they were a sign of their great friendship. Those were the last days of glory for our people.' He dropped his gaze back to the fire.

Legolas said nothing; he had never thought much about the Noldor until now. Thranduil was bitter and uncompromising in his belief that the Noldor had betrayed their folk, the Silvans and Sindar, had slaughtered them in Doriath and sacrificed them in Dagorlad, that their hot and furious blood had brought them nothing but doom. And only a few days ago he would have laughed in disbelief to hear that there had ever been such friendship between even a Noldor Elf and Dwarf. Now however, after only a few days in Gimli's company, though it would never happen to him, he could imagine such a friendship. He supposed too that the Noldor were a strange folk and much concerned with gold and jewels, and he supposed would have much in common with the Dwarves.

Legolas had taken the last watch the night before and expected to take the first watch, but when he went to stand on the perimeter, Glorfindel patted him on the shoulder and sent him off to sleep. When he awoke later at a noise in the night, he saw Glorfindel still on watch though the moon was high and the hour late. Glorfindel watched all night, and the next day he was quiet and alert as if he were waiting for something.

0o0o0

They had fled the scene of slaughter. The cruel, bright albai did not pursue them and so Ghashnik and Thrakash had fled before them as the group of murdering and blood-thirsty albai and tark hunted them relentlessly. Gimgûl had been wounded and they had abandoned him in the marshes of the river, left him to rot, and now they were here in the shadow of the old watchtower, knowing that the Gûlwas here. Thrakash could feel it drawing him closer and he hurried Ghashnik for they were Lug-hai, folk of the Tower in the big forest of Búrzkik. His heart longed for the safety of the dark trees and their twisted trunks.

Now he and Ghashnik crouched at the foot of the crumbling tower and watched as two of the albai searched for them amongst the rushes at the edges of the river. The water was too deep here to cross and rushed over the rocks. They had briefly considered swimming it anyway until they felt the Gûl's comforting presence and their hearts had shouted in glee and delight. Now they waited for the albai to leave so they could find their master.

Thrakash glanced down at his heavy sabre. Its coating of venom with which he had so carefully greased the blade was still there, a slick gleam over the edge of the blade and he wished there were more of their hai so they could burst upon these two unwary albai with their ugly, bright faces. Then they could cut the red, beating hearts from their chests, watch them scream and writhe as the albai had made Bubhosh scream, impaled upon the spear. Thrakash would never forgive the albai for that. He wanted revenge.

Awareness of the Gûl grew upon them both, like a slick of oil in the mouth. It beckoned to them, gave them dreams of what they wanted, how they must find their way into the tower, to hide and wait, how the Gûl would cast a cloak of darkness about them and drive the albai onto Thrakash's waiting blade. Again, he was shown his own sabre striking them down, his talons tearing open their thin, pale chests and reaching through the meat and pulsing, pumping veins to the rich red jewel within, the beating pumping heart, to gore them with his teeth and suck the blood from the dripping heart... He felt his own heart pound and the blood leap in his veins. Be still, he told himself, be still, or they would see them with their sharp bright eyes, hear them with their wicked pointed ears so horribly similar to his own. It made him shudder to think of the whispered rumours that the Hai had been albai once until the Great One had saved the spirit of the Hai within and transformed them. And how he hated them for what they were, for what he once was...

Ghashnik had sunk to his hindquarters behind fallen stones, his mottley hide beautifully camouflaged by the ivy that slunk up the ruins of the tower. Thrakash's own hide was greyer and even better disguised here than in the trees. And he watched the albai as they searched, ever closer...

The one with the smooth, bright hair looked up suddenly as if he sensed something, its terrible sharp gaze drifted over them and he felt Ghashnik stiffen. He put his own hand lightly on his companion's shoulder to still him, to silence him and for a moment, the albai stared almost straight at them and Thrakash had to control his thumping breath in case he gave them away. But the other albai called to the first and it turned away. He felt Ghashnik breathe out in relief. Slowly, they sank back into the gloom. Deeper into the tower's ruined twisted heart. Waiting.

The albai called to one another and slowly, their trail brought them closer to the tower and then one of them looked up. Thrakash knew the darkness had been growing, he could feel it growing in power and filling him but it seemed the albai had only just realised and then saw the skies filling with clouds and thunder. And then as the first big drops splashed, they both stood together for a moment and then began to come right towards the two Orcs. He was surprised they did not realise the Orcs were there but the slick oil of the Gûl smothered the Orcs and Thrakash slowly brought up his venom-edged saber, careful not to let it catch in the light.

0o0o

Knowing the Brethren and Aragorn would be joining them soon, they spent the day scouting, searching the water margins, the marshes and fens. Great trunks of ivy grew over the ruined towers and buildings, and the harbour that had once been a great wall of cleverly crafted stone and elegant quays was fallen into complete ruin. Glorfindel had forbid them enter the tower or climb the rocky outcrop upon which it was built, and none of them wished to for there was an unhealthy air about it and a strange smell, an air.

Rhawion and Legolas had drawn as close to the base of the tower as they wished and paused to search the marshy fens that had once been a shallow harbour. An old rusted anchor lay on its side amongst the rushes.

When they saw the heavy rainstorm approach from the East, Rhawion complained and insisted they take shelter in the tower although Legolas was unwilling.

'Glorfindel told us he did not want us going in there,' he said but it sounded weak even to him. 'I thought you didn't like being near the tower?'

Rhawion shrugged, 'I do not, But nor am I fool enough to stand out in the rain such as this when there is perfectly good shelter nearby. We only have to stand in one of the archways- we'll not go against Glorfindel since you are so anxious to please him.' Rhawion smiled and then added, 'If you are scared, you can stay here and I will scout.'

'I am not scared!' Legolas said before he realised that he was. There was something about the tower that repelled him, and looking towards the tower he thought for a moment he saw movement, a glint. He narrowed his eyes but there was nothing; perhaps it was merely the weak and fading sunlight on rain. After a moment, he turned back to Rhawion. 'Why don't we just make our way back to those willows?'

'Typical Woodelf! Thin skimpy trees that give no shelter or proper elven-constructed building? It's trees every time with you,' Rhawion said but he smiled as he spoke. A roll of loud thunder crashed in over the river from the mountains. He looked at Legolas. 'It is unwise to shelter near trees in a thunderstorm,' he said.

'Why ever not?' Legolas asked astonished.

'Trees can bring the lightning,' Rhawion said authoritatively and did not wait for Legolas' answer but passed him and jogged quickly towards the tower.

Legolas reached out to grab his sleeve. Something didn't feel right. That taste in his mouth was not only the lightning. That pricking of his fingertips was not only the storm.

'Rhawion!' he cried, 'Rhawion, wait.'

But Rhawion shook him off, pulled away, laughing. 'Come along, treecreeper.'

A crash of thunder rolled over the mountains and then the sky spilt apart with a lightning flash. Great drops of rain splattered his face and Rhawion grabbed his sleeve, pulling him towards the old tower. Already the wind gusted along the river bank, bent the willows and thrashed their long trailing branches, pulled at their cloaks and long hair. Legolas squinted into the wind and saw then.

'The Nazgul has been here,' he hissed, dragging Rhawion back.

'It has long gone,' Rhawion said, but he did not go deeper into the Tower.

They stood at the entrance and stared into the darkness. Coils of ivy looped, slithered like thick serpents over the stones and a dim greenish glow hung about the ruins like the luminous moss that grew in damp and dingy places in the south of the wood. Behind them, great drops of rain splashed on the broken stones and the wind blew gusts along the riverbank. Legolas squinted against the wind and rain, saw the sudden darkening of the skies, a dense cloud tinged yellow and purple like a bruise. A spike of lightning flashed over the mountains and had this been an ordinary storm, he would have laughed and dragged Rhawion out into the rain but his hair rose on the back of his neck and his fingertips prickled. He wondered if the Nazgul were coming for the last of their number. Were they riding in on the storm? Would they appear out of the lightning on huge wet black steeds and sweep their terror over the land?

He caught himself. Fear. It is only fear, he reminded himself, knowing now that indeed the Nazgul had been here recently.

'We should not go on,' he whispered and took a step back.

What madness possessed Rhawion then, he never knew for the warrior had learned to heed Legolas. But this time, he did not and shook his head, stepped in from the rain. There was a slight, soft sound to Legolas' right and he turned to look, eyes wide, hands going to his bow. Instantly he let an arrow shoot through the shadows and heard it clang uselessly against stone. He let his breath go and turned back to Rhawion.

'Come. We must go from this place.'

'You are skittish as a colt,' Rhawion said and moved within. He shifted his bow from his shoulder and leant it against the wall. 'It is dry in here and we can shelter. We won't go in any further. It is a dark and eerie place, but look how it rains!'

Legolas could hear the rain driving down and the wind roaring through the trees, the ruins above. It drew moans and whistles through the empty halls above. He hardly dared drag his eyes from the gloom, but he glanced quickly over his shoulder. A spike of lightning flashed and the mountains were sharp and jagged, black against the lightning.

'It is the storm that makes you jumpy,' Rhawion said amiably and settled himself against the wall, leaning back and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Legolas looked at him astounded. He took two strides across to Rhawion and grasped his sleeve. 'I tell you, we need to leave. Now. A Nazgul is here. Somewhere.' He pulled Rhawion to his feet and looked around and listened. Grumbling, Rhawion snatched up his bow and glared at Legolas.

'Very well,' he said.'If it makes you happy, but there is nothing here. I am sure I would know if Nazgul were here. All I can feel is my hair prickling from the storm.'

Legolas stared at him wide -eyed. He knew then.

The smell and discordant notes were revealed to him, almost as if a veil that had cloaked them had been drawn back...whatever had shrouded them now wanted him to hear. He took a breath.

There was a smell like old, empty tombs. Nazgûl.

'Run!' he shouted.

tbc

* Reference to Spiced wine's wonderful descriptions of the Feanorian cities -Magnificat etc.


	13. Nazgûl

Beta: The gorgeous Anarithilen, who gives her time so generously and for no reward.

 

For Scarlett 10 and Kenaz- Happy Birthdays (if a little belated)

 

Thank you to those who review - it really means a lot. Melusine, ThisLittlePiggy, MDarkspirt, freddie, Vanwa, estra, kasugai gummie, IsaDayDreamer (oh, I think you’ll get an idea in this chapter or the next one- don’t worry, you sweet thing!) and then lots of lovely guests -please do login as I always reply and like to answer /say thank you.

 

 

Translations:

 

Nimir – Shining one. Adunaic name for elves.

 

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

 

Azgarâzir –The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Although it was the White Council that overthrew Sauron as the Necromancer at the end of The Hobbit, Thranduil was the one who continuously fought them. Literally "wage war" cf. azaggara

 

-mîk – Child of. 

 

 

Chapter 13: Nazgûl

 

A wind suddenly howled through the dank tunnels, tearing masonry from the rain-soaked walls, hurling chunks of wet stone around them. Legolas felt the stones shake beneath his feet and ran faster. He thrust Rhawion back through the arch and down another passageway under the pelting rain. 

 

‘Stay in cover,’ he shouted and shoved Rhawion ahead of him. They fled. Up the tunnels, into a courtyard, turned frantically and dived down another tunnel. The wind howled after them and a spectral light, eerie, green, luminous, pursued them. A terrible visage stared at him with sunken eyes. Its jaws opened and a terrible scream spilt the air. Legolas saw Rhawion stumble and grabbed him, dragged him through an arch, and ducked down a small corridor, thrust him ahead into a small room, and then another beyond it. The wind screamed by and past them, the green light flared and flashed and disappeared.

 

There was a horrible slithering sound, like scales drawn over stones and he was for a second thrown back to that moment under the Mountain, Smaug’s claws extended and flexed* and his heart suddenly leaped and pounded, hammered in his chest so it must hear, it must hear...Tears leaked from his eyes and horror flooded his veins, every pore... But he kept hard hold of Rhawion who staggered and stumbled against him, shoved him deeper into the tower. 

 

‘In here. Quickly!’ Legolas hissed. There was no roof to this small room and the rain splattered against the stone floor, drenched their hair and skin. He realised it was an old guard room for there were ancient rusted spears on the wall, shields. Hanging from one corner was a ragged banner, its device faded and the colour bled away into the tattered edges. He dragged Rhawion into the corner with him, crouched in the shadows, nerves jangling, hands feeling fuzzy with it. 

 

‘Slow your breath,’ he whispered urgently. ‘We can stay here for a moment until it has gone.’ 

 

Rhawion struggled against him, eyes wild and panicked. ‘No! We must flee!’

 

‘We will. Soon.’ Legolas’ own breath gasped, his chest heaved, heart pounding. He took a breath and willed himself still, looked up at the open sky above him, smelt the clean rain. ‘Let it pass us by first. Hold, hold.’ He spoke as much for himself as Rhawion. ‘Slow your breathing,’ Legolas whispered, feeling his own blood thundering in his veins. ‘Soothe your spirit, your song...Calm.’ He pulled Rhawion’s wet face towards him, held his gaze and the frightened Elf stared at him, felt the rain on his own skin.

 

‘Hush...hush. It will not find us if we hide our fear. Think of the stew that Amron will be making. Think of the coin you will win back from me this night.’ He breathed with Rhawion, leaned towards him and listened, but the Elf was too panicked and all Legolas could hear was the wild beating of Rhawion’s heart; there was a seesaw lurch of waterfalls and valleys, sweet alpine meadows... He had always been in the Valley...

 

Rhawion clutched at Legolas. ‘We must fly this place! Run.’ He struggled against Legolas and tried to pull away. 

 

Legolas pinned him against the crumbling wall and forced Rhawion to look at him, let his bow fall to the rain-drenched floor so he could hold Rhawion still. ‘It is only fear,’ he said quietly, earnestly, ignoring his own wild panic. He closed his eyes slowly and breathed through his nose, for it calmed his men in the Wood, opened his eyes slowly to look at Rhawion, who slowly brought his gaze to fix upon Legolas. 

 

‘That’s it,’ said Legolas softly, encouraging. ‘It has been unhorsed, uncloaked. It has no physical form. It can only frighten us. And we need not give it that power.’ He hoped it was true, but he had no real knowledge of the Nazgûl like this...a little thought niggled at him; perhaps uncloaked they were worse, in their raw power....He pushed that terrible thought aside and breathed. 

 

Slowly he relaxed his hold on Rhawion, stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides and Rhawion did not flee. Rain pattered on the stone floor, Legolas’ skin was wet and hair plastered to his skull, trickled down his neck.

 

He turned to scoop up his bow, and rubbed his fingertips together frantically for the pricking of his fingers had turned to hot needles. Alarmed, he looked up towards the cracked and broken doorway. It seemed that in the darkness beyond, the air dislocated; everything slowed, colour bled away into a strange sepia, and the walls, the doorway elongated and distorted. It was like looking into a still pond and seeing the reflection break....A heavy weight seemed to press against his chest and squeeze the breath from his lungs. Long shadows beyond the doorway trembled and slid, and something skittered across the darkness, like a slick of oil on water. It pressed onto the dark. 

 

I am coming.

 

Breathless with fear, heart pounding, he stumbled backwards into Rhawion. Rhawion’s eyes were huge, wide, and Legolas felt the hairs all down his neck, spine and his arms rise in frozen horror. Shaking, he drew one of his long, white knives, knowing they were useless against this enemy, and stumbled back.

 

‘What? What is it?’ Rhawion asked, breath panicked and fast. ‘We must get out.’

 

From the darkened heart of the tower, beyond the doorway, a cold wind fingered its way towards them, and it smelt of old and empty tombs...

 

Azgarâzir-mîk... 

 

The word seemed to hiss from the air, and the coldness of it made his blood stand chill and cold. His hair stood on end. Azgarâzir was what the Orcs of the South called Thranduil. It knew him.

 

Far from home....

 

He stumbled back another step. Breathing hard and fast, he held his knife before him, could see it shaking in his trembling hands. 

 

Better to run.... 

 

A long howl came from the tunnels and ruins beyond, like a long leash of sound that wound through the tunnels and empty rooms, the abandoned watch tower... 

 

‘What is... that?’ Rhawion stared at Legolas, looked down at his shaking hand. 

 

Legolas gripped him hard. ‘It is the Nazgul. It has found us.’ He glanced around the old guard room. There was only the one doorway, and beyond it the shadows seemed to slide and press against the dark, as if they merely waited. He looked up into the rain, at the grey skies that pelted them with rain and then at the crumbling, slippery walls. ‘It is only fear,’ he said again, and held hard to Rhawion’s hands in his so that his own would not shake. 

 

And then the wraith was upon them. A screaming wind roared along the passages and twisted into the guard room, flattened the Elves against the crumbling walls, tore at their long hair, whipped tears from their eyes. A terrible, blood-freezing scream split the air and both Elves clapped their hands over their ears. Legolas felt warmth seep between his fingers and thought his ears bled. The old spears and iron shields juddered frenziedly in the wind and a knife rattled on the wall like a ghostly hand was shaking it. A rusted sword clattered to the floor beside them. The banner tore and flapped like a huge bat in the rain.

 

A long, thin knife on the wall rattled more violently and suddenly jolted loose. In the furious wind it hurtled through the air towards Legolas. He pulled back and it whipped past. Behind him, Rhawion stared at Legolas, eyes wide in horror and then...and then...his mouth opened in a wordless O that was lost in the battering rain and wind, and he staggered forwards, clutched at Legolas’ sleeve and sank to his knees in the rain. 

 

Bright blood spilled over his fingers where he clutched his chest, soaked his tunic. Legolas stared down at him. The blade that had hurtled towards Legolas, that he had dodged, was buried in Rhawion’s chest. Their eyes met in shock and Rhawion’s mouth opened, pained shallow gasps came from his lips. Legolas could not speak. Tenderly, he eased the knife from the wound and clamped his cloak over it, pressed it hard. It was instantly soaked.

 

Rhawion gave a low moan that was almost lost in the howling wind and lashing rain. He gripped Legolas tightly. The wind rose to a piercing, shrieking wail that seemed to pierce his skull and he could barely think. 

 

‘We need to get out,’ Legolas shouted over the roar of the furious wind. ‘Can you stand or shall I carry you?’ 

 

Rhawion half closed his eyes and then said, ‘I will stand. You will need your sword-arm free.’ 

 

Legolas nodded. ‘Ready?’ He leaned down, pushing through the wind, and slid his hands beneath Rhawion’s arms, hauled the Elf up against him. Rhawion slumped heavily against him and he staggered, drew Rhawion’s arm over his shoulder as carefully and gently as he dared. The wind battered the walls, thrashed angrily around the room, threw him back. He leaned forwards, keeping one arm around Rhawion’s waist and pressed the other hand against the wound. It was wet beneath his hand and it was not the rain. Too much blood, he thought alarmed, and glanced at Rhawion’s frighteningly pale face.

 

The wind flattened against them, pressed them back and Legolas leaned forwards against the driving rain. A shield clattered violently against the wall and the swords and spears banged against the stone. The rusted sword stirred and then shot along the ground as if it had been kicked towards them. 

 

Better to leave him and run....

 

The furious wind screamed and thumped against the ruined stone walls, then it suddenly tore upwards into the ragged clouds in the sky. The shields and swords abruptly stopped rattling and the silence was as sudden and unnerving as the wind had been.

 

Legolas stood frozen, staring upwards at the sky and the rain drenched him. The wind had drawn up and up into a spiral, like smoke. He felt Rhawion lean more heavily against him and glanced down at the Elf’s bowed head. His cloak and tunic were soaked heavily with blood now.

 

‘Has it gone?’ Rhawion asked. He gasped as he drew a breath.

 

‘The wind has gone,’ Legolas replied, but he did not think the Nazgûl had gone. He was not even sure that the wind had been the Nazgûl or some sorcery of its Ring...His heart seemed to leap and pound, and his nerves jangled, hands felt fuzzy with it. Rhawion’s breaths came shallow and quick and Legolas knew his were the same. 

 

‘You said it was only fear,’ Rhawion said with a touch of humour and Legolas bit his lip. ‘You were right, Legolas. We should not have come here.’ 

 

‘Ah, it was raining,’ said Legolas, and his eyes were fixed now on the shadows beyond the doorway, and it seemed too far suddenly. ‘You didn’t want to get wet and spoil your hair.’ 

 

Rhawion gave a little frightened laugh and Legolas hefted him more closely. ‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘Come then.’

 

The shadows beyond the doorway were sepia; they shifted, trembled. Like a thin black shroud they slipped along the broken stone floor. It is only fear, he repeated to himself, but it was harder to think that now and he tried to still his thundering heart. 

 

Cold drifted, touched the back of his neck.

 

I am here.

 

Elbereth. Help us. The prayer died on his lips and his breath clouded in the air...warm, he was still warm in this deathly cold. 

 

Yes...Still warm...Yet.

 

A scrape of steel came from beyond the doorway. Two Orcs stepped out from the shadows; they looked elongated and even more deformed in the shifting and distorted air..

 

Orcs too, he thought in sudden despair, feeling Rhawion’s heavy weight slumped against him, and he tightened his hold. There was a coldness on his neck. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and started, for the shadows on the edges of the room were oily and black. There, the rain did not fall onto the ground. 

 

Holding Rhawion against him, he shuffled away from the corner, heart pounding in horror. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his back though it was deadly cold and he heard Rhawion give a low moan. Quite suddenly the truth hit him. Was this how he would die? In this terrible place, beneath the dark tower? He knew he could not keep hold of Rhawion and still fight the Orcs. He felt Rhawion’s fingers clutch at him tightly as if by holding onto Legolas he might still cling to life.

 

He hitched Rhawion up a little more, shifting away from the creeping shadow, but it brought him closer to the Orcs. They watched him carefully, unmoving, sabers drawn and small yellow eyes glittering with blood-lust. 

 

‘He ain’t going to last long that one,’ one of the Orcs said in Westron. 

 

Legolas almost jumped. He had not expected that. He held his knife out before him, but it would be useless against their heavy blades. 

 

‘Why don’t you just drop him and we might let you go? You can run faster then.’

 

Legolas stared at the Orc. Its thin lips had pulled back to show its sharp, pointed teeth and he remembered the scrap of blue dress they had found at the Orc encampment, and the bones he had seen near the old campfire on the mountain. He heard Laersul in his head then, telling him...breathe...breathe...as he had so long ago in the Wood. Would his family ever even know what had happened to him?

 

The other Orc edged closer, its saber gleamed in the rain that still poured into the small guard room. The Orc sneered and then took a bold step forwards, lightly tapping its saber against Legolas’ long white knife. Its small yellow eyes met Legolas’, eyes so alien and ‘other’ that Legolas knew there would no mercy for either of them.

 

‘I will tear out your heart while you still live,’ it said. ‘I will hold it dripping into your own screaming mouth while I eat it.’

 

Legolas batted away its blade as if in contempt but his blood had rushed to his head and he felt giddy with it. 

 

The air shifted beside him. He dared not look but slid his gaze sideways to where the dark was colder, deeper. 

 

Azgarâzir-mîk... They will eat your flesh and chew your bones...

 

He hardly dared breathe and the darkness shifted, seemed to tremble like an oily black pond disturbed by a pebble.

 

Rhawion gave a quiet groan and Legolas felt warm liquid against his thigh. Horror lifted the hairs on his scalp. It is only fear, he told himself, it is only fear, remembering Laersul holding him tightly, forcing Legolas to look into his steady grey eyes even as he had forced Rhawion... He wished Laersul was there now, wanted his calm and steady heartbeat, he had always soothed Legolas. And he knew then, he would never see Laersul again. He felt his fingers tremble and give, his knife clattered on the wet, broken stones. A low growl came from the thick throat of one of the Orcs and the other laughed jeeringly.

 

‘Not so cocky now, albai.’ It kicked his knife away into a corner and grinned horribly, showing its pointed teeth.

 

Legolas clasped Rhawion to him, the heavy weight dragged him down on one side, unbalanced him, and hampered him. His knife glinted in the corner but it was so far away now. The rusted sword was nearby but too close to the Nazgûl. He could not help the shudder of fear at the stillness of the shadows. He had his other knife in his harness but he would have to reach back and leave his side exposed. He knew he could not fight them. ‘Rhawion,’ he said softly. ‘I have to let you go for a moment.’

 

He felt Rhawion shift against him and try to stand. ‘I know,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But do not leave me in this place.’ Then he gave a quiet groan as Legolas let him slip gently to the ground. He leaned briefly against Legolas’ legs before he crumpled slowly on the wet, broken stones.

 

One of the Orcs laughed and stepped closer, aimed a hard kick at Rhawion but before he could even reach him, Legolas suddenly whirled, his left foot lashed out at the Orc’s groin. Already he had drawn his knife and struck out to block the second Orc’s blow. He did not pause to hear the muffled cry of the first Orc doubled over, clutching its groin. Swiftly, he shoved the second Orc’s saber away with his knife, and spun and kicked the rusted sword up into the air, catching it deftly in his free hand; the heavy saber clashed against the rusted sword; he was shoved back for a moment. The Orc came hurtling at him, whirling its saber and met his sword with a clanging, heavy weight. The Orc kicked out and Legolas leapt back, whirled lightly, and spliced the air in front of him, knife in one hand and the sword in the other, deflecting the blow from the second Orc which was still struggling to its feet, clutching its groin, and blocking the saber of the first Orc as it fell towards Rhawion.

 

But as he stood before Rhawion, protecting him, a finger of ice stroked down his spine and he gasped in horror. Sudden terror surged around him; he was closed in, the walls were crumbling, crashing around him; a terrible shriek split the air and he turned and slashed his long knife wildly at empty air that smelled of old and empty tombs. 

 

Instantly a heavy blade hammered down; he blocked with the sword just in time but already there was the glint of another blade raised above Rhawion and he lashed out again with his foot and caught the second Orc again. It doubled over snarling and cursing in its own tongue.

 

Darkness slicked around him, the air trembled and the horror froze him. It gathered near Rhawion and the Elf’s face turned slowly towards it, his breath rasping and panicked and loud. Legolas kept his sword outstretched towards the Orcs and edged closer to Rhawion.

 

...Leave him. As you did the nimir in Agannâlo...He is meat. 

 

It is hopeless, he realised, but the Elves of the Wood had never given up easily, so he fought the despair and he lunged forwards and slashed at the air. A horrible hissing laugh cut the air and the Orc behind him lunged and caught the slightest nick of his own suede tunic, the faintest slide of steel against his skin and a bead of blood. He did not know but it was enough and when the Orc pulled back, it glanced down at its blade and grinned horribly at the wet crimson smear. 

 

‘Glorfindel!’ Legolas shouted with all of his strength, hoping against all possibility, against all hope, that maybe, just maybe the glorious warrior might hear him.

 

The final attack came only an instant later. The Orcs leapt towards him, sabers raised and flashing a frenzy of blows. They attacked from the same side and he saw they tried to push him back, away from Rhawion and knew they would force a surrender from him if they took Rhawion. Their strikes were clumsy and unskilled and he saw how he needed to strike first one, then the other and took a step towards them, his knife and sword crossed before him.

 

He could hear Rhawion’s breath, little panicked gasps but he dared not look away from the Orcs. Instead he edged closer to Rhawion, and pressed his ankle against Rhawion’s arm so the Elf knew he had not been abandoned. Rhawion felt so cold, and Legolas almost looked down for he thought he would see the darkness writhing over the Imladrian and the horror that touched him made Legolas want to run. Then a finger of cold air, like ice, stroked his cheek and he cried aloud.

 

...Nimir... Azgarâzir’s son...

 

It was the lightest of touches, the coldest; its breath lifted a strand of hair and stroked his ear and he turned his face away in slow horror from the Darkness that melted and snaked away from Rhawion now, and instead poured around his neck, coiled about his chest and pressed itself over his lean hips, his thighs, wrapped its sinuous formlessness about him and he could not breathe. Fear tightened against his lungs, dread crushed the breath from him and the slow horror froze him so he could not move. The rusted sword dropped from his hand and he wanted to scream but would not. He clung to his knife, gripped it hard, thought of the Wood.

 

You should have fled... 

 

Cold. Cold. Like frost. Ice. He would die now.

 

A dark tendril of cold twisted around his throat, buried itself in his ears, forced itself into his mouth so he choked. His fingers scrabbled in panic at the darkness squeezing round his belly, slowly forcing the air from his chest, squeezing the blood from his heart and veins, brushed against something small and round. The roulette. And suddenly he felt a surge of warmth, and there was an image of fire, molten steel, the ring of hammers and deep voices chanting, the deep song of the mountain that had withstood time and was not afraid of the Nazgul. 

 

Almost sobbing with sudden hope, he grasped it and struggled against the coiled, crushing darkness, wrenched his arm free and flung the little shining wheel away from him towards the Orcs. A gurgling cry came from the throat of the second Orc and it dropped its saber, clawing uselessly at its neck as the cunning little roulette buried itself, sawing deeper with its tiny teeth. He did not pause to look but slammed both himself and the heavy coiled darkness against the other Orc. Hard, hard he stabbed his knife deep into the Orc, thrust deep, felt the scrape of steel against armour and shoved, hard, harder until the resistance gave way and the knife sank into the Orc’s flesh. He pushed deeper, both hands, all his weight though the Nazgûl’s shrieking filled his ears and he wanted to clasp his ears and crouch on the ground. He felt his throat hurt but did not know he was screaming. 

 

A blinding flash of white light struck the broken floor of the guardroom and the rain pelted down suddenly. He felt its fury, the dark coils grew, bigger, heavier, filled his mouth, ears, pressed against his eyes...It engulfed him, swallowed him.

 

He tried, oh how he tried, to fight the terrible pounding fear but the dark reached into his frightened mind and dug its talons into his memories, ripped them from him one by one, reached into his heart and closed its fingers around it...squeezed. Blood burst in his veins, he could feel his eyes bulge....

 

Another flash of white light and somewhere a loud voice shouted....but stars burst in front of his eyes and choking, struggling to breathe, his chest heaved...he thought his heart had burst...

 

And suddenly the dark slipped from him, and he fell. The wind was back and tore around the room, thundering against the walls so the room shook and the walls shuddered, stones toppled and crashed around him and he could hear a voice, like a Song. He lifted his head, thinking he must have died and that Námo had come for him. But through the swim of tears, he saw a shining figure - a warrior with a sword of white fire and he stood tall amongst the falling ruins and his voice cried aloud in a language Legolas did not know. Glorfindel.

 

Legolas shook his head, crawled towards Rhawion and clasped the Elf against him. Stroking the hair back from the Elf’s still face, he whispered hoarsely, ‘Glorfindel has come,’ he whispered. ‘Hold on, my friend. We will be safe now.’ It must be the rain that was making his face so wet, Legolas thought but he felt the stillness of his blood, and when he struggled heavily to his feet and hauled Rhawion up, he was limp and very cold. Legolas did not want to think about that now so he slung Rhawion’s arm over his shoulder and hitched him close. 

 

The wind tore at their long hair, whipped tears into his eyes and his ears burned with the shrieking. It seemed he saw a spectral face, skull-like in the air for a moment, tearing towards him and almost he lost his nerve but he felt the warmth of Glorfindel and heard him shout into the wind. ‘Begone foul thing! Cursed of Sauron. There is no fear, no terror you hold that would unseat me, for I am Glorfindel of Gondolin and you are nothing!’

 

Through the wind that swirled and twisted around them, Legolas saw a blaze of light, white like lightning that flared and burned up in the wind, and he was suddenly elated that here was Glorfindel! And Glorfindel had slain the Balrog and defeated the Witchking of Angmar. The wind howled, shrieked through the cracks in the walls, broke the stones apart so the walls shuddered and wobbled. The ancient weapons still left hanging on the walls shook violently and clattered loose, hurled towards them and Glorfindel merely batted them away with his great sword. It shrieked up into the sky and they saw above them, the sky scattered with eerie greenish flickering lights and sparks of white. It whirled around the ruined tower above them, battering it like some great beast. The thunder boomed across the valley, into the Mountains and the wind rammed against the crumbling tower again and again.

 

Legolas stared wildly at Glorfindel for a moment. Then he grabbed Glorfindel by the arm, eyes wide. ‘We need to get out of here!’ he shouted. “It is bringing down the Tower!’ He dragged at the Elf lord’s arm, but he merely pushed him gently away. 

 

‘Go,’ Glorfindel shouted over the sound other rushing wind. ‘Hide. I refuse to run from this slave of Mordor!’ 

 

Legolas looked at him with absolute adoration then and all his fear fell away. He cradled Rhawion gently in one arm and seized his white knife that had fallen near the dead Orc. ‘If I am going to die, my lord, it will not be of fear. And I would not be shamed by standing with you.’

 

Glorfindel turned his beautiful face towards him and smiled and Legolas’ breath left him. He would willingly walk through Mordor itself for this lord whose courage and deeds were legendary, and everything they said of him was true. 

 

‘Take Rhawion out of here,’ he said gently to Legolas and lifted his hand to wipe away something on Legolas’ cheek. ‘Gimli is on his way and will aid you. I will guard your retreat. I will be close.’’

 

‘I cannot leave you,’ said Legolas urgently.

 

Glorfindel stared for a moment and then turned his head to watch as the wind screamed and tore at the walls like a frenzied, maddened beast. The walls shook and crumbled and a shower of small stones pelted down on them. Glorfindel looked up in sudden alarm. ‘It is as you say!’ he suddenly agreed and he clasped Legolas’ arm briefly, and then shoved him ahead of him. ‘This tower is about to fall. Run!’

 

Legolas stumbled over the broken stones and sprang away from a huge block of stone that crashed to the ground, shattered and showered them with pebbles. The noise was terrifying as the rocks tore themselves apart and a shower of small rocks rained down on his head. He put his hand over Rhawion’s head and half lifted, half carried him, stumbled out of the guardroom and into a courtyard, where the rain drenched him immediately. 

 

‘Don’t stop,’ yelled Glorfindel and already the ground was shaking and quaking and there was a terrible roar as the stones ripped apart and crashed around them. ‘Keep running!’ He felt Glorfindel grab Rhawion’s other arm for the weight lifted from him. They ran through the pouring rain and the rocks and stones that pelted them until they broke free of the tower. And then there was grass beneath their feet and the willows were waving madly, their long fronds waving and streaming in the tearing wind, like weeds in the river. Dead twigs and leaves were thrown at them, caught in their hair, scratched their faces and Glorfindel hefted Rhawion up then into his arms and carried him, and Legolas followed. 

 

A stocky figure hurried towards him, panting slightly. Gimli. Never had Legolas been so glad to see a Dwarf! 

 

‘Come, Legolas. Quickly before the Tower falls in on itself.’

 

Legolas turned his head and saw that a sickly greenish light came up from the Tower and there were flashes of red and white amongst it. A dreadful wailing came from the ruins and made the hairs on his arms and back rise. Thunder seemed to come from inside the tower and the earth shook.

 

‘Quickly. Behind these rocks. There is granite beneath and it will be safer than standing here with the shock about to come,’ Gimli said and tugged at Legolas’ arm. And then the Tower began to fall, the ruined battlements crumbled and rocks and debris fell around the tower, shattered on the ground, and even here they were pelted with small showers of rocks.

 

Glorfindel grabbed Legolas, pushed him down, below the rocks. Legolas noticed the Dwarf was crouching beside them and thought how strange; it was even funny and he felt a small bubble of laughter well up from some deep part of him. He no longer felt fear, or panic but a strange dislocation, like he was standing outside his own body and watching as Glorfindel carefully let Rhawion down onto the ground. 

 

‘He needs to have that wound bound,’ said Legolas numbly. 

 

Gimli reached out and touched Rhawion’s pale face. He looked up at Legolas with a strange expression and said nothing.

 

There was a tremendous crash and the earth shook and thundered. Legolas clung to Gimli and felt a strange vibration go through him and stared at the Dwarf; he was humming, deep in his chest and throat the reverberations trembled through Legolas too and he thought of the deep stone, solid rock they were standing upon. Granite, Solid. Strong, good stone. Around them he thought he could see the slate and shale splinter and slip and the gaps appear between the splits filled up with loose stone and rocks. He thought as he looked down at his feet that he could see the blue veins and gold threaded through the rock below and how the ancient rock was steadied by the Dwarf’s humming. 

 

Dust rode up in spite of the rain and washed over them, muddying the rain to make a dirty ashen paste that streaked their faces and clothes and hair.

 

At last it was quiet and Legolas lifted his head and stared at Glorfindel. The warrior’s hair was streaked with blackened ash that had mixed in the rain and streaked his hair, his face. A smudge of dirt was on his cheekbone but his blue eyes looked beyond Legolas at Rhawion and he did not move.

 

Legolas turned as if asleep and touched Rhawion’s hair, his face. He was cool and still. He felt heavy like the blood stood still in his veins. And then he knew. Too late. Ah, too late. He turned away and bowed his head in shame and pity and covered his eyes with his hand.

 

 

tbc

 

Mienpies has done another fab picture- Legolas having a fanmoment!! I cant post it here but PLEASE go and look at all these lovely pics over on www. efiction. esteliel.de under More Dangerous. There are pictures by the same artist posted in Sons of Thunder- some really lovely stuff.

*Legolas has seen Smaug up close once, and it was before the Battle of the Five Armies. He went into the Mountain and stole a glance at the sleeping Dragon. 

 

The next chapter is already almost finished- Ingrid thank you for reviewing. It's really so encouraging and keeps me writing. RiverWoman, when you get here, hope you enjoy it!

 

Chapter end notes:


	14. Poisoned

Beta: My lovely Anarithilien, who gives her time so freely and generously.

 

Chapter 14 Poisoned

2nd November- 4th November.

 

Glorfindel had almost dragged Legolas after him as they fled the Arrow and headed up onto the slopes above the old ruined citadel, Gimli urging them on in case the fall of the tower caused the river to rise and flood. In the few hours after, Legolas felt sluggish and unbearably weary, and his arm was a little numb. He couldn’t think why that would be; it did not hurt and he had taken no wound, he thought rubbing it. It felt more pins and needles than anything. Glorfindel too had questioned him as they ran and he had shaken his head, unable to speak, for the horror clung to him and he could only think of the clinging dark, the coiling hissing dark that wound about him, that engulfed him, that reached into his memories and ripped each one from him...

When they reached the high ground where Amron anxiously waited, Glorfindel made Legolas rest for a moment while Gimli fashioned a litter for Rhawion’s body. Amron was stunned with misery at Rhawion’s death and sat near him, holding the lifeless hand and stroking his hair back from his cold face while Glorfindel sat beside Legolas and questioned him over what had happened. 

Legolas told what he could, but he could not stop his eyes from drifting over towards Rhawion and the memory of the fight was confused and distant; all he could remember now was the terrible engulfing dark and the moment he thought all would end. In that moment, all sound and light had ceased and there was only the Dark...Emptiness. A vast night that dropped endlessly into nothing. It had swallowed him and only Glorfindel had brought him out. Too terrified for him even think about it, he skirted Glorfindel’s questions, was evasive. And it felt disloyal to remember that Rhawion had insisted they go into the tower in the first place.

‘So the dagger was torn from the wall and stabbed Rhawion, but you were not hurt?’ Glorfindel asked again, looking at him intently. Amron had joined them now and his face was devastated, but he placed his hand gently on Legolas’ shoulder and patted him kindly. 

That kindness almost undid him and he let out a gasp; Rhawion was dead. And Legolas wondered, dreaded, that perhaps the Nazgûl had taken Rhawion’s soul as well as his life, that he was trapped in that endless Dark.

‘Legolas,’ Glorfindel leaned towards him more urgently. ‘Were you hurt?’

Legolas breathed through his nose and tried to look away from Rhawion’s empty body. ‘No,’ he said a little more loudly than he intended. ‘It was the Nazgûl...it...’ He found himself unable to explain, and could not find the words so he merely said, ‘It came too close.’ He looked away, not wanting Glorfindel to see the tremor in his face, in his hands, as he remembered the coiling dark, how it had swallowed him, and he had looked down into the chasm of emptiness.

‘The Orcs?’ prompted Glorfindel. ‘There were only two Orcs, dead on the floor when I arrived.’

‘Yes. Only two.’ He shook himself; Laersul would have scolded him for this and with Woodelf practicality, he pushed away the darkness and focused on Glorfindel. ‘I think they had escaped the rout earlier and fled this way. They were hiding in the ruins and the Nazgûl drew them out I think.’ He passed his hand over his eyes. ‘I should have realised...I should have sensed them...’ He shook his head in disgust with himself. ‘Had it not been for them, we would both have got out.’

Amron and Glorfindel exchanged a quick look. ‘Are you sure you were not wounded?’ Amron asked and his eyes were worried. 

Legolas frowned. Their insistence was irritating and worried him equally. He had already told them he had not been injured. He would have known. 

Glorfindel shifted and turned to look Legolas in the eye. ‘I am going to insist, Legolas. We only have a little time and I know you say you were not injured, but I want to check. Take off your tunic and let me see for myself.’ Glorfindel said and Legolas knew that tone. Sighing, he unbuckled his belt and reached up to the collar of his tunic and unbuttoned it. He shrugged out of his tunic and then pulled his shirt over his head. 

Glorfindel’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at the swirls and coiling dragon, the yäré-carmé. The bruises from the fight at the Orc camp had faded but Glorfindel tutted over the newer purpling on his skin from the hard knocks received from the stones of the falling tower. It was hardly surprising, Legolas thought, Glorfindel would look much the same for he had been behind Legolas as they ran. 

Glorfindel leaned over him to look closer and that brought the Elf lord close. Legolas felt Glorfindel’s breath on his cheek, then neck, then chest. Long hair drifted over his skin and Glorfindel ran hard, skillful hands over his arms, his chest. Legolas’ nipples pebbled under the stroking hands. To his horror, he felt himself stiffen. 

Elbereth! Legolas leaned his head back against the tree trunk and half-closed his eyes. He could not trust himself to look at that golden head bent over him and tried hard to think of something else. 

‘I am going to press the skin now, Legolas.’ Glorfindel glanced up and Legolas, with his head back and eyes lifted heaven-wards in an almost-swoon, did not see the faint exasperation on Glorfindel’s face.

Glorfindel’s hands were running over his chest, down his arms, pressing down on his skin and Legolas bit his lip in frustrated desire. He hoped Glorfindel would not insist on examining his whole body because he really did not think he could hide his shivering arousal. Think of something else, he told himself and tried to conjure up an image of his father...tried to convince himself it was Thranduil bending over him; he would be scolding him for going into the tower and not running away like all the creatures of the hells were after him. 

When Glorfindel looked up and said, ‘I cannot find anything on your upper body,’ Legolas almost squeaked.

‘It is too dark and frankly, you are filthy. I can find no cut or wound, and there is no blood, but your skin feels hot,’ he said, frowning slightly. ‘Do you feel any nausea or sickness?’

Legolas opened his eyes. ‘I feel quite warm,’ he confessed and knew he blushed. 

Amron gave a snort. ‘Let me see, my lord. I am sure if there is anything to find I will.’

Glorfindel looked irritated and embarrassed. Legolas thought he must be fed up with the number of young warriors who swooned if he so much as looked at them. 

‘I will want to check you properly in the morning when it is light,’ Glorfindel said. ‘I cannot see well here and you need to wash this Orc blood off you.’ He prodded impatiently at smudges of black and rust-brown marks. Legolas frowned, uncomprehending at first until he realised that, in places, blood had soaked through his clothes. A dark stain had spread upon his tunic and soaked redly through his shirt. He frowned and looked at his chest. There were smudges of rust-brown; that was not Orc blood. It was not his either. 

He looked down. Rhawion’s. All this blood on his clothes, on his skin, was Rhawion’s. There was so much. Of course, he thought numbly, it was where Rhawion had clung to him and beseeched him not to leave him alone in that place. 

He felt the world tilt and spin, and then there was warmth and quiet murmured words of kindness. He felt Glorfindel hold him steady and he looked up into the blue eyes that were concerned and kind, and Legolas found himself wanting to weep.

‘You did everything you could and more,’ Glorfindel said quietly. Legolas bowed his head. 

The dark was closing in, and he felt the brush of night on his face, on his lips and shivered. In the cold, he thought of the shadows pressing close, the hiss of the Nazgûl pressing against his skin. It had killed Rhawion. Was Rhawion lost in the empty dark?

He was aware that Glorfindel was still speaking but he felt distant and otherworldly. ‘...we will meet up with the rest of our party soon I hope, and I want Elladan to look at you,’ Glorfindel was saying. 

‘Yes,’ Legolas answered, hardly listening, and looked down at the ground again. A spider scuttled through the stiff blades of winter grass...Its thin legs clambered over the tiny stones and he watched as it stopped and waved its legs and then began to spin a gossamer thread that it wound about the grass. By morning, every blade of grass would have silver thread waving over it, he thought, and he wondered how it survived in the winter. 

Glorfindel was looking away down into the valley of Phellanthir and his eyes were unfocused. Legolas hung his head; he had disappointed Glorfindel, he knew, and Rhawion was lost. His arm hurt and he supposed, now that he considered it, the Nazgûl had touched him there perhaps? A sliver of memory, a slicing cut...His fingers drifted over his arm but the memory floated off before he could quite grasp it.

At last Glorfindel spoke again. ‘I would let you rest properly but I fear that the Orcs you killed in the Tower, and the camp we found earlier might be merely the harbingers of a greater army.’ He sighed and pulled at his silver vambraces etched with bronze and copper. ‘The destruction of the Tower will attract hordes from the Mountains.’ 

He rose to his feet and held out his hand to Legolas. That simple act of kindness, of acceptance was almost Legolas’ undoing. 

He walked behind Glorfindel, and Amron and Gimli took up their burden. Time indeed to go home, he thought. He missed his family, and wanted his father’s comfort, Laersul’s approval and Thalos’ teasing laughter. It was not the first time he had been so close to death, but it was the first time he had ever been touched by the Nazgûl, and he felt corrupted by it, like a stench had crept into his lungs and suffused his blood and flesh. And Rhawion was dead. He could not stop thinking it and found his fingers plucking at the green suede of his tunic restlessly. We should have run, he thought, I should not have pinned Rhawion down. We could have fled, could have got out perhaps....

He did not know he let out a small cry of distress. A sharpness of pain lanced through his arm and into his chest and he stopped and shook his head as if he could rid himself of it. 

He was barely aware at first of the hand upon his elbow, supporting him, moving him onwards, holding him when he almost stumbled. It was only when he did not crash to the ground that he realised and looked up at the beautiful concerned face of Glorfindel. He stumbled on, light-headed. 

‘I am sorry,’ he kept saying and even Gimli shook his head and looked away. He saw Glorfindel tap his fingers impatiently and then push him gently on.

 

0o0o

Glorfindel pushed them on, as far from the Arrow as they could get and as quickly. Inexorably clouds rolled across the sky and Legolas kept glancing up; he felt a strange fear and thought the Nazgûl must be close, slithering through the shadows, drawing evil to it, gathering storm clouds. He stumbled onwards, barely registering when Glorfindel held his elbow or supported him. He looked often at the still figure of Rhawion that Amron and Gimli carried between them. But whenever Legolas tried to take his turn carrying the litter, Amron gently but firmly pushed him away, or Gimli rumbled kindly that he was a Dwarf and much better at this kind of thing than a Woodelf. Legolas frowned. He remembered a Dwarvish roulette sawing its way through the throat of an Orc and was confused. When did that happen? And Glorfindel, seeing his confusion, kept him alongside and near. And truth be told, Legolas was glad for he felt strangely distanced and his heart pounded as they hurried away from the Arrow.

Amron finally persuaded Glorfindel to stop once more near a quiet bend in the river where there were shallows and pools. Glorfindel would not permit any to bathe, even Legolas, for there were not enough of them to watch but he told Legolas he would look at him more fully in the daylight and Legolas did not protest. Instead he sank gratefully to the ground, huddled in his cloak and rested his head on his knees.

In the darkness before dawn, they sat silently with no fire or light. Only a few words spoken to share the lembas, to pass around a flask of miruvor that Glorfindel insisted they all drink, and then the quiet rumbling of the Dwarf’s snores as he napped, leaning against a tree trunk, arms crossed over his broad chest and legs stretched out before him. 

Amron was on watch and stood quietly above them on a slight rise. Legolas could see his outline against the slowly lightening sky. His own head pounded and he wanted to sleep. His arm hurt and when he pressed it, the skin felt like fire. He rubbed it slowly, unable to recall when he had wrenched his muscles, for surely that is why his arm and now his shoulder hurt? It must have been when he pulled Rhawion away from the Nazgûl.

He glanced towards the litter and felt his chest squeeze when he saw how pale and still Rhawion was. He is dead, he reminded himself. I should not have stopped him from running....I should have stopped him going in there in the first place...

He heard Glorfindel shift next to him and the warmth of the warrior’s body moved closer to him. ‘It is the shock,’ he said softly. ‘You have faced the Nazgûl and we have all lost our friend. We could have lost you too but for your daring and courage, your coolness in the face of great danger and terror.’

Legolas wanted to shake his head and deny it but he did not have the energy. Instead he looked at the ground, at the tiny blades of grass, at the dull earth that was slowly drawing into itself to sleep, for winter. Cold seeped into his bones then, and he wondered what it would be like to be buried in the cold ground. And then he shook himself; Elves did not do that. Men did, and he was not a Man.

 

o0o0o

 

Legolas heard them first; three horses approaching from the North-West. They cantered, and galloped where they could down the grassy slopes, restless prancing hooves of two horses and the steady plodding of a third. It was Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond, Legolas thought, his heart sinking further. He thought how Aragorn had already accused him of failing in his trust, and Elrohir hated him for releasing the Orc to death. And now they had lost one of their own and Legolas had not done enough.

It was Amron though, who spotted them first at sunrise where they reined in their horses and paused high up on a ridge overlooking the valley of the Arrow. The breaking sunlight glinted richly on their silver stirrups and bits, and swirled in the mithril runes on their shields. A crimson glow touched the edge of one shield and the wind swept their long black hair back from their pale and lovely faces, pulled their cloaks back and swirled them. A moment’s pause and the black horses shook their long manes and flicked their tails while their riders stared down at the small camp, and then they poured down the slope like a wave, their hair streaming out behind them, long streams of night silk. Legolas barely noticed Aragorn on the steady grey horse pounding heavily along behind them.

The Sons of Elrond drew their horses in a tight circle before the camp, and their black steeds tossed their heads and pawed the ground. One of the brothers slid down from his horse and greeted Glorfindel with a clasp. ‘We have news,’ he said, pulling off his black leather gloves. He glanced around unsmiling and then his gaze caught upon the litter and his face froze. ‘I see you also have news, but more grave,’ he said. ‘How is it that Rhawion has come to be injured?’

His brother’s horse stamped a hoof once and the wind lifted its rider’s long black hair. ‘He is not injured,’ he said and his voice was grim and stern. ‘He is dead.’ He swung himself down from his horse and strode over to the litter and Amron moved aside. The Son of Elrond knelt and placed his hand over Rhawion’s forehead and shook his head. ‘This is sad news indeed. How did this happen?’ He turned to look at Glorfindel.

‘We found the last Nazgûl in the Tower. There were Orcs there too. Phellanthir is destroyed,’ Glorfindel replied. He stroked the nose of the black horse and it huffed quietly at him. 

Legolas looked away, glad that Glorfindel had not mentioned his part though he felt cowardly for it.

‘Ah. We saw the lights in the sky yesterday. We came as fast as we could,’ said the other twin. He came to stand beside his brother and looked down at Rhawion’s pale face. He leaned down and stroked Rhawion’s long hair back from his face and then reached to the brooch on his cloak and unpinned it. He pulled his sable cloak from his shoulders and cast it over Rhawion, pulled it gently over him and covered his face. 

Legolas turned away. He did not see Elrohir, whose cloak it was, look at him and frown. 

‘We will remain here for another night. We should find a suitable place to camp,’ Glorfindel said. If he was as weary as Legolas, it did not show in his voice; his face was still as strong and fearless as ever, and the light in his eyes was undimmed. He did not say they had a mortal with them, and he did not say that he wanted to assure himself that Legolas was really uninjured.

‘There is a good place over there, just down the slopes to the East,’ Aragorn said, dismounting and stroking his horse’s neck. ‘I have used it several times. There are trout in the river there.’

Gimli and Amron picked up their burden once again and followed Aragorn. Elrohir’s face was stone when Legolas trudged wearily past him and stumbled, caught again by Glorfindel. 

 

0o0o

 

They made camp in a shallow dip sheltered by oak trees and near the riverbank. A shallow sandy beach was below them and they lay Rhawion’s litter a little way away from the camp but within sight. Glorfindel unbuckled his great sword and rolled his shoulders, looking towards Legolas as he did.

‘I will fetch kindling to make a fire,’ Gimli volunteered and stood, stretching his arms.

‘I will go with you. I need to make myself useful,’ Legolas volunteered with unseemly haste, and although Amron gave him a look, no one said anything about him wishing to make himself scarce.

‘And then you will go and bathe and check you have taken no wound,’ Glorfindel said severely to Legolas. But he did not insist that Legolas go right then for the sons of Elrond were already leading their horses to the river.

‘I do not need a guard,’ Gimli said but it was not unkind. He looked at Legolas with his deep brown eyes and there was a glint in them, of fire and memory, and he murmured quietly, ‘But you might. And I have no more roulettes to wager for I seem to have lost mine somewhere.’

‘It is buried deep in the throat of an Orc,’ replied Legolas and he felt the tension in his throat ease as the darkness ebbed. The Dwarf’s strong presence reassured him strangely. ‘And I was mightily grateful for it, friend.’

 

o0o0o

 

All the time they were collecting firewood, a feeling of nausea grew for Legolas and his head began to ache too, the way it did sometimes in the South when he had been too near Dol Guldûr for too long. Gimli glanced at him more than once and asked him what was wrong and he pushed away the nausea, the ache. But he could not ignore the prickling between his shoulder blades like he was being watched and he stopped often to turn around and listen. All he could hear was the murmur of the wind in the trees, and the low voices of their companions. He knew their Songs were twining about his but he blocked them off. He did not think he could bear to feel their sorrow. 

He was determined to seek out Aragorn, preferring to approach the Man rather than the mighty Sons of Thunder as Glorfindel had suggested. He felt sure they would spurn him. He and Gimli dropped their firewood near the small fire that Amron was trying to coax to life. Amron had gathered twigs and dry wood for kindling and was holding a lighted bunch of sticks and twigs beneath a larger pile and cursing under his breath as it would not light. 

Glorfindel was returning from the river and had clearly been bathing for the ashen streaks were gone from his hair and face and he wore a clean shirt and no tunic. Legolas felt a moment of disappointment that he had not been to bathe at the same time but he saw Amron grinning at him so he glared back. But it was half-hearted so he dropped the firewood as clumsily as he could and just out of Amron’s reach.

‘You should ask him if he’ll wash your hair for you,’ Amron murmured, smiling. He grunted as he reached for a piece of kindling and realised what Legolas had done, tutted irritably.

‘I might just do that!’ Legolas relented and pushed the firewood towards Amron with his foot. And then the wind fluttered the edges of the sable cloak that one of the brethren had cast over Rhawion and he felt a pang of sorrow.

When he turned back, he saw that Glorfindel’s hair gleamed dark gold and lay down his back like a shining curtain. Glorfindel had obviously dressed in haste and was not quite dry because his shirt clung to him. His breeches were snug fitting and damp too...Legolas wished he felt more himself for he would have made a play right then for Glorfindel. He realised he was staring in a manner most unbecoming when he heard Amron snort.

‘Legolas, go and get cleaned up,’ Glorfindel said as if completely unaware, hanging his damp tunic out on a low hanging tree branch. He had turned his back to Legolas so he could ogle the tight breeches over Glorfindel’s buttocks and watch how his shirt stretched over the broad shoulders. ‘Make sure you look carefully and check for any small cuts we may have missed. Aragorn is already there. Get him to look you over.’ Glorfindel shook out his cloak now and brushed it with his hand. 

‘Off you go, Legolas,’ said Amron with a wide smile, throwing a sliver of soap at him. ‘The views aren’t as good in the river but it’s a lovely morning. Don’t be too long. I’d like to have a bath before night fall.’

Legolas bared his teeth in a threatening grin at Amron who laughed delightedly. Gimli dropped his firewood and carefully picked over the kindling he had brought. He selected one twig carefully and placed it on the camp fire that Amron was trying unsuccessfully to get going and said unhelpfully, ‘That fire’s not going. You need to pay attention, Amron, instead of teasing. He’s no match for you right now anyway.’

Amron said something back but Legolas was not listening now, for Glorfindel had turned to look over his shoulder and frowned at Legolas, jerking his head to indicate that Legolas should indeed get a move on. 

‘Check for any small injuries or scratches that could be poisoned.’

Legolas nodded, even if he did not suspect an injury, he would be glad to wash the ashen paste that streaked his skin and he thought cold water might clear his head and relieve the nausea. But more, he wanted to scour the sensation of sticky blackness from his body, to wash away the lingering touch of cold horror from when the Nazgûl had engulfed him, and he had been swallowed by the empty Dark. 

The river rushed over rocks and boulders, white rimmed and strong, but the bank dipped inwards at one point, forming shallows and pools and he squatted by the water’s edge to wash his face. He still had the sensation of being watched; his nerves prickled and his heart pounded in his chest as he splashed clean, cold water over his face.

Aragorn was already there with his back to the riverbank, and therefore to Legolas. The Man had stripped to his shirt and breeches and stood thigh deep in the water. He looked over his shoulder at Legolas’ arrival and nodded a greeting but he did not speak otherwise and turned his back to Legolas to continue his own ablutions. 

Legolas unbuckled his belt and pulled his tunic over his head carefully for his shoulder pulled now and his arm suddenly throbbed. He used the opportunity to stare at the Man since he faced the other direction and seemed so absorbed. And he was curious.

Aragorn was tall and strong, Legolas could see, more so than other Men he had met, and there was a lightness and grace about him that was almost elvish. Legolas was pleased that he had worked out that as the Heir of Isildur, Aragorn must be descended from Elrond’s brother, Elros and therefore had the blood of Thingol Greycloak in his veins. But that was as far as he could get; the subsequent line of Kings of Men had seemed dry and dull and he had always encouraged Galion to tell the tales of battles and of heroes instead. Galion’s version of history did not always quite tally up with what his father made him read and he was trying to remember it as he pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it carelessly on the ground. He promised himself he would take the time to pull one of those biographies from the shelves of his father’s study on his return, probably the one holding down the corner of the map of Eriador. Pulling the thin linen shirt over his head, he dropped that on top of his tunic.

Aragorn stood thigh deep in the water and sluiced water over his head and shoulders with cupped hands. He pushed his hair back from his face then and turned to look at Legolas. He stared for a moment like he had never seen a Woodelf before. Perhaps he had not, thought Legolas, half-naked and with the yäré-carmé swirling around his chest and broad, muscled shoulders.

‘You are an accomplished archer,’ Aragorn said a little awkwardly and Legolas looked at him. Of course he was. That’s what he was, an archer. But he could see the Man was trying to be friendly and so he smiled back.

‘And you are an accomplished swordsman,’ he returned, hopping unsteadily on one leg to pull first one boot off and then the other. He dropped each of his boots on the hard earth so he stood only in his breeches. He paused, wondering if it would be easier to wash his breeches if he kept them on and saw that Aragorn had taken off his shirt and was rinsing it in the river, but kept his breeches on. So he waded too into the water and rubbed the sliver of soap between his hands and over his thighs. He thought Aragorn was staring and tried to ignore it. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt and the water looked dark and viscous. 

He stood for a moment looking down at it and trying to think what this reminded him of. There was something he was supposed to do as well, but he could not remember that either. His nerves felt unsettled and he looked up at the sky for it seemed to him to grow darker. There was a strange smell in his nostrils and his blood felt warm, pounded in his veins. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he searched the shadows that crowded around the river even in the morning light. He felt a piercing gaze like a knife in his back.

‘Do you hear something?’ Aragorn waded towards him and looked out over river to the far shore. Legolas shook his head.

‘I do not know. I feel we are being watched,’ he replied and he suddenly felt drained and tired. He found himself rubbing his arm and it felt sore. He lifted his arm experimentally and found the skin pulled and blood pulsed.

‘My brothers are on watch,’ said Aragorn dismissively and Legolas grimaced. Of course. Elrohir’s hatred of him would be tangible. That must be it. Although whether the power of the Peredhel was enough to make him physically sick was questionable.

‘Let me look at you,’ Aragorn said and he moved closer to Legolas. Legolas lifted his head to see that Aragorn was staring at him intently. Suddenly the Man was holding his arm. Legolas looked down at where his hand lay on his arm. ‘You have blood on you,’ Aragorn said, holding his arm and twisting it a little to look. ‘Not Orcish blood either.’

Legolas looked down. Indeed there was a smear of red, even where he had washed it clean. ‘I have been feeling strange,’ he said. ‘But I did not think I had been injured. I thought it was the Nazgûl affecting me still.’

Aragorn nodded. ‘True but this is not the Black Breath. Let me see.’

Legolas was not fool enough to protest. Any warrior was a fool to ignore any wound, any scratch no matter how small and so he lifted his arm to look more closely at it. He rubbed water over the skin and the black smudges and rust-brown that was Rhawion’s blood washed away to show a small nick, scabbed already. But the skin was puckered around the edges though there was a faint black tinge. He bent his head down to try to sniff it and there was the telltale smell of dankness and decay. 

‘Poison,’ Aragorn said shortly and Legolas stared at it. 

Fool, he scolded himself. It was not as if he had never been poisoned before and he should have known better. It was a very small wound though, he thought, and not much poison could have entered. He would probably shake it off quickly. He turned and waded back to the shore. Leaning down to scoop up his shirt, he suddenly felt dizzy and swayed. Already Aragorn was there and catching him, swiftly pulled a lace from his own shirt and tied it as a tourniquet around Legolas’ arm. Legolas stared at him wide-eyed. Surely it could not be so serious? He recognised some of the symptoms of poisoning now, the dizziness and fluttery breath, the smell of the wound. 

‘Can you walk?’ Aragorn asked and Legolas nodded, surprised. The Man scooped up his boots and tunic and thrust them at Legolas, and then grabbed his own clothes and followed Legolas back to the camp.

Their companions looked up as Aragorn hurried Legolas along. The Elf’s breeches were soaked and he was barefoot, half-naked, and carrying his boots and his tunic in one hand and the wet bloody shirt in the other. 

‘Elladan! Quickly,’ Aragorn shouted and Legolas, hearing the urgency in his voice, was alarmed. He had survived spider venom often enough in the woods and this was a tiny nick, not a great gash with the stinger left in. ‘Sit quietly please, Legolas,’ the Man instructed, ‘and do not move. The tourniquet will stop it from spreading further. I do not know how far it has already spread.’

Legolas felt a strange disorientation, a distance like he was watching someone else. And then Glorfindel crouched beside him and Amron was looking up at him with anxiety. ‘I have had a headache, some shortness of breath,’ he told Aragorn and tried to stay calm. ‘I thought it was the after-effect of the Nazgûl,’ he said weakly.

Aragorn looked at him and nodded, but his grey eyes were worried and Legolas thought suddenly that this was no spider venom. Aragorn lifted his arm gently and turned it towards Glorfindel to see the small cut, and Legolas’s alarm grew for it seemed that simply in the time they had returned from bathing, the wound was angry and puckered and his skin felt like it was on fire and painful to the touch. Legolas watched as Glorfindel peered at it and brought his face close to it, sniffed and made a face. 

‘Lhach-rhaw.’ Glorfindel frowned and then Legolas was aware of a flask of some sort being held to his lips and obediently he tipped his head back and drank the thick liquid, expecting it to be some vile medicine. But it was miruvor, clear and refreshing and he immediately felt revived. His eyes cleared and he looked at Glorfindel; his lovely face was clear, smooth, flawless. His intense blue eyes that had seen so much regarded Legolas anxiously, and those full lips were lusciously close. Legolas swallowed, licked his own lips which felt dry and papery.

‘Over here, Elladan!’ Aragorn’s voice sounded urgent and close. ‘He has a cut on his arm. A blade must have gone through the tunic and just caught him.’

One of the sons of Elrond, Elladan he assumed, crouched before Legolas, placed a cool hand on his brow and tutted. ‘Your arm is hot. You should have mentioned it.’ 

‘I did not realise,’ he heard himself answer but no one seemed to take any notice.

Elladan lifted Legolas’ arm and stared at it for a moment, then he lay his hand over the wound and bowed his head. It was unlike anything Legolas had ever experienced. His arm already felt hot but where Elladan’s hand touched him, it was cool and he felt a calm ease through his veins, his limbs. It seemed to him then that there was a veil of blue cast over him and it cooled him, settled peace and calm throughout his body. 

‘It happens, Elladan,’ Aragorn was saying. ‘Battle fever is in the blood and you do not feel a wound. It has happened to you more than once.’ He squatted beside Legolas and peered into his eyes as he continued speaking to his brother. ‘And you have felt the Nazgûl, the Black Breath. You have been in Mirkwood and been lost.’

Elladan ignored him. Instead he said curtly, ‘Bring him closer to the fire.’

Legolas felt strangely dispassionate. They discussed him as if he was not there and thought it was time to assert himself. ‘I am not cold.’

Elladan lifted an eyebrow and looked so like his father that Legolas almost laughed. He thought he might be a little hysterical. 

‘I will need fire,’ Elladan told him seriously, and Legolas felt alarm creeping over him. 

‘Why is this suddenly so urgent?’ he demanded. After all, he had got this tiny cut yesterday and run from Phellanthir with little or no effect. Surely it could not be worse than a spider bite? ‘I have been poisoned before,’ he said. ‘I know what it does but this is a tiny scratch. It will make me sick, I know, but I will recover.’

‘This is no spider-venom. This is lhach-rhaw,’ Elladan replied as if that said everything and Legolas saw Amron turn away with his hand to his mouth so he thought that it must be bad. ‘It lies dormant for a while, and then it kills very quickly, very suddenly. It is agonising. Usually Orcs use it in their initial attack and then withdraw. They wait for the poison to take effect and then launch a second attack.’

Legolas stared at him in horror. He had had this wound last night! And suddenly the Orc’s satisfied face appeared before him, glancing down at a red smear on his sword; Legolas had thought it was Rhawion’s blood, but it had been his own.

‘Aragorn, are you ready?’ Elladan called back over his shoulder and there was a muffled curse and grunt from Aragorn. ‘Amron, pass me my pack.’

Legolas was aware of a purposeful quiet, an intense focus and that Glorfindel and Amron had withdrawn and let Elladan and Aragorn do their work. He wondered where Elrohir was and thought it was better he was not there for he would be willing Legolas to die, he was sure.

Elladan turned and rummaged in his pack and then without a word, grasped Legolas’ arm again and peered at it. 

‘This will hurt,’ he said, ‘but we need to be quick. The lhach-rhaw creeps quietly through the blood stream and strikes suddenly, usually before there is time for an antidote.’ He glanced up and met Legolas’ wide stare. ‘I am sorry,’ he said sincerely and that more than anything alarmed Legolas. 

Elladan rubbed some liquid over the skin first and that numbed it. Legolas was used to this, thought it was similar to the astringent, or tire, used in the Wood. Elladan tested the tourniquet that Aragorn had tied, loosened it, moved it a little higher up and retied it again. ‘We cannot know how far any poison has travelled. If it has reached your heart there may be no saving you.’ Elladan glanced up at that and met Legolas’ wide green eyes. He seemed to linger for a moment and then dropped his eyes back to the wound.

Legolas looked past Elladan to see that Aragorn had a bundle of some sort of woolen material and a number of small glass cups laid out before him on a flat stone. Aragorn approached Elladan and then dropped into a crouch beside him. The Man looked at Legolas and smiled briefly. ‘This is the best way we know for drawing poison. It has always worked.’ He was reassuring, calm, and when he put his hand on Legolas’ shoulder it did not burn or hurt. ‘You may not have felt it strongly yet, and if we have caught it in time what will happen now as we draw it is you will feel its effects. But it will not grow stronger, just more intense. You will feel all the symptoms and then it will get better.’

‘So I felt nothing and now, in purging me of the poison, you will make me feel worse,’ Legolas said wryly. 

Aragorn gave him a sudden smile. ‘Yes. I fear that is exactly what will happen.’ He turned his back to Legolas and busied himself with something. Legolas could not see what the Man was doing but he heard the clink of glass and thought of the small glass cups the Man had set out. There was the smell of burning wool and he wondered if the bundle of wool had been put into the fire for some reason.

Elladan had turned away again and was opening up a small roll of velvet. Within gleamed a number of tiny knives and small metal implements. Legolas frowned a little and looked away. In the Wood, warriors and healers simply sucked and spat the poison unless it was a risk to themselves to do this; then they laid on as many poultices as they could and dosed the injured with medicines and let you get on with it. Most Elves recovered, and those that didn’t usually had other wounds as well. 

Elladan held a small lancet over the fire and Legolas found himself watching with interest in spite of himself. ‘Will you pierce the wound with this?’ he asked. 

Elladan nodded briefly. ‘Yes. It will hurt. See how the flesh is puckered and blackened at the edges? And it radiates outwards, red. But first we do this.’ He turned his head slightly towards Aragorn and held out his hand into which Aragorn placed one of the small glass cups. Inside the glass was a flame and he squinted at it, trying to see how that had been achieved but he could only see a small blue flame dancing inside the glass. Swiftly Elladan clamped the glass cup straight over the wound. Legolas squirmed for a moment for it burned and was like fire but he forced himself still. 

‘This will draw the poison,’ Elladan said quietly and held the cup tightly against the cut until the flame gradually died. With his other hand he held the small knife over the fire so the blade became red with heat. ‘That has taken out all the air from the glass,’ he said to Legolas, and he nodded, without understanding why that would be important. ‘It creates a vacuum and that will draw the blood.’ He looked up at Legolas for a moment and then said, ‘Are you ready? This will hurt and in drawing the poison, you will feel its effects quite suddenly. You may hallucinate and you will feel intense pain. It is...’ He paused and then said, ‘It is like a live thing. It fights the healing.’

Legolas nodded and then braced himself for the knife was red hot now and Elladan held it poised above the wound. Then suddenly and swiftly, he punctured a deep incision into the skin and with his forefinger and thumb pinched the cut open. Blood oozed from the cut, dark crimson, almost black and laced with a venomous yellow-green pus. Elladan had been right. It felt like fire and Legolas hissed slightly in pain and shifted. He closed his eyes and endured. He felt something circle the cut and opened his eyes looking down. Elladan had placed a second hot glass cup over the wound and again, inside the glass was some sort of wool which was burning. Incredibly it seemed to soak black from the wound.

‘Another please, Aragorn.’ Elladan was hunched over the wound now and held out his hand to Aragorn who, Legolas saw, was heating a third glass, holding it on a forked stick over the fire. Elladan suddenly whipped off the second glass and stuck the third over the wound and this time he held it for longer. 

Aragorn took the used glass cups and with a stick he prised the wool from the cup and threw it into the fire. It sizzled and black smoke poured from the wool as it incinerated. Legolas felt everything tilt for a moment as the blackened woolen threads twisted and writhed like worms. Then he felt sick and retched, and felt someone lift his hair and a small bowl was put under his chin and a cool hand over his brow. Black liquid spewed from his belly and a taste of bile and sourness flooded his mouth. His stomach spasmed and he retched again. The glass was burning his skin and he squirmed, for the pain suddenly became unendurable.

He was aware of Elladan murmuring in a low voice, ‘Elrohir, hold him still. The fifth cup now and it will draw the poison out.’ 

And then he felt a sudden heat scorch through him like flames. He gave a low cry and his blood surged. He fell back against a broad chest that steadied him, into arms that held him safe and still. He was on fire and retched again, feeling darkness boiling in his blood, pounding through his body, churned through his veins by his treacherous heart. And then he was surrounded by a crimson flame but this did not burn him. Instead he thought, in the venomous fever, that the crimson flame fought the poison. 

His heart gave a great leap in his chest and his blood suddenly thrummed in a rhythm like battle drums. His skin tingled like lightning had passed over him and there was the scent of snow on the mountains. It seemed to Legolas that the stars were suddenly huge and bright and the river turned molten, like mercury in the strange light. Elrohir’s eyes were mercury, liquid steel, like the river. And when Elrohir lay his hand upon the hot skin, Legolas thought he would faint. He let his head fall back in an ecstasy. He languished, let it pour over him and the heat between them ignited.

He thought he saw himself standing on a barren plain, ashen and with heaps of slag and stone. Grey lowering skies pressed down over him, and silence...He saw Elrohir stride swiftly up the slopes of ash and stone, pushing his way through faceless panicked soldiers, and Legolas lifted his head. His eyes widened, lips parted and before he could speak, Elrohir was before him, hand cupping the back of Legolas' head and brought him close. Elrohir stared for a moment into his eyes and pulled Legolas closer still, pressing his mouth against his, pushing between his lips as he gasped and filling his mouth with his own tongue. Wishing there was nothing between them. It was fierce, brief, passionate. He heard eagles soar above the snow...and Legolas heard his thoughts: This, this is what love is, he thought. Pure. The Song amplified.

'I will find you,' said Elrohir, pulling back and gazing into Legolas’ eyes that were full of wonder. 'When this is done, I will find you.' He pushed a loose hair back from Legolas' face. He did not pause but turned and strode down the slope. Men parted for him and turned their faces towards him in admiration for he was fell and fair and had stood alone before the hordes of Mordor...

Legolas rubbed his face with his good, free hand, laughing. He was poisoned certainly, and hallucinating, for he could not, under any circumstances, not if they truly did stand before the Gates of Mordor with less than an acorn’s chance on ice, ever imagine Elrohir Elrondion kissing him. He wondered how he knew it was Elrohir and dismissed the idea completely...but he did notice the tremble of Elrohir’s hand as he laid it upon Legolas’ arm. But that, he thought, must be because he wanted to kill him and had instead to help heal him. And it amused him, the irony, so he laughed again.

0o0o

He awoke occasionally, shaking with fever and sweating. Dimly he thought he saw shadows of the poison and fever, two black horses throwing up their heads and tossing their long, black silk manes, and he thought the Sons of Thunder had been transformed into those black horses, their dark eyes turning on him and whickering softly to each other. But he knew that was just the fever. He watched them move about the camp, long black hair and steel-grey eyes like mercury, like starlight, like shot lightning... He shook his head. It was the fever, he thought dully. It had made him hysterical and full of imaginings. The firelight cast red and black shadows on the faces around him and he drew away from them in fear, for they were like demons of shadow and flame and he felt a terrible foreboding.

Gimli sat with him and wiped away the sweat from his face and gave him cool water. The steady song of the mountain soothed him. It was like the deep places of the earth, still and silent for ages and ages, disturbed only by a single drop of water. And he heard the steady beat of the heart of the Mountain, the liquid gold heart, and the steady bellows that was the Dwarf’s breathing.

He dreamed...

Long hair, like black silk, falling over a strong shoulder, hands more used to swords than caresses, entwined in his and a strong and noble face smiling at him, love-light in the grey eyes that were molten like mercury...

He knew he was delirious because it was Elrohir Elrondion he saw. It was like the vision earlier of them standing before the Gates of Mordor...and the poison was shivering through his flesh and melting his memories so he no longer knew what was real and what was a dream...

 

tbc

Notes:

lhach-rhaw- flame in the body literally. A violent and vicious poison introduced into the bloodstream by a tiny incision can be enough to incapacitate an Elf.


	15. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had forgotten to post this here- sorry. I always post first on www.efiction.de.esteliel or just google Faerie Tolkien fan fiction. You will also find fanart that lovely readers have done to go with this and other fics. Thank you to anyone who commented or sent kudos.

Summary: Legolas joined the scouting expedition to search for the Nazgul along the banks of the Bruinen. Aragorn and the Sons of Elrond had been despatched by Glorfindel to warn the Men of the Angle about the Orcs they have just slain. Glorfindel led the rest of the group, Gimli, Legolas and two Imladrian warriors, Rhawion and Amron, to Phellanthir where they hunted the Nazgul. Glorfindel warned them to stay away from the Tower and to avoid engaging the Nazgul. However when it started raining, Rhawion persuaded Legolas to take shelter in the Tower and Legolas followed him. There they encountered the Nazgul, and two Orcs. Rhawion was killed and Legolas attacked by the Nazgul. He was wounded and the wound turned out to be poisoned. In the last chapter, Elladan and Elrohir attempt to heal him.

 

Chapter 15. Lost Souls  
7th November 

Gimli sat quietly watching the fire and humming under his breath. He tapped out the little signs of the Iglishmêk against the stony ground, letting his fingers trace over the small nuggets of minerals amongst the stones and feeling where there were veins of agate and quartz below the ground, deep in the earth. He dug his fingers a little into the dusty thin soil and felt where it would be good to dig should he wish, half closed his eyes and saw how the rich ore was buried beneath, how the caves opened up in the deepness beneath their feet and how the river had carefully worn away caverns and long winding tunnels in the rock....He breathed in and smelt the cold freshness of stone, of the granite and slate and the seams of agate...

‘Gimli?’

He looked up. It was the Man, Aragorn, who was the Heir of Isildur, whatever that meant. Gimli pursed his lips. He was a good Man whatever his ancestors had done and Gimli had a liking for his quiet ways.

‘I can relieve you of your watch if you wish to rest,’ Aragorn said.

Gimli was quite happy watching over Legolas. He had grown fond of the Elf during their brief journey and he felt he had more of a bond with him than with anyone else in their small company, partly because they were both outsiders and partly because of the incident with what Gimli thought of as Elrohir’s Orc. So he shook his head and folded his arms.

‘You get some rest yourself Aragon. You have been helping those two sons of Elrond and that took some time. And you have scouted and hunted for our supper. All I have done is sit here and watch that he doesn’t choke himself.’

‘Hardly true my friend, but if you are comfortable there, I will not dislodge you,’ Aragorn shifted the sword at his hip and then stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

‘Maybe in two hours,’ Gimli agreed, thinking the Man could barely keep his eyes open as it was. ‘Then I can sleep. For the moment, I am awake and thinking.’ 

Aragorn stepped away then, smiling, and rolled himself in his blanket and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

Gimli ran his fingers through his beard, feeling its luxuriant silkiness and thinking how he would enjoy bathing in Elrond’s rather wonderful bathing rooms on their return to Imladris and using the rich and aromatic oils. It had been a surprise and joy to Gimli when they arrived in Rivendell to learn that the Elves knew how to pump hot water from the mountains around them, and understood the importance of bathing, of oils, of scented soaps. Almost like home. 

Gimli rummaged in his tunic to find the pocket where he kept his pipe and pipeweed and pulled it out, staring at the fire and its crackling flames. The slight breeze would take any smoke away from the camp. He filled his pipe and tamped it down, then reached into his pocket for his tinderbox.

A figure stepped out of the shadows beyond and stooped over the sleeping forms of his companions. Gimli narrowed his eyes; Elrohir. He knew it was Elrohir because it was Elladan whom Gimli had relieved from watching over Legolas, and he slept nearby so that Gimli could awaken him quickly if necessary. And Elrohir had a dark-bladed sword hidden in a black sheath with runes of mithril that swirled and swooped. Gimli wanted to look more closely at the sword, for its black blade was unusual and Gimli thought it must have been fashioned from the rare metal ores found in the distant northernmost and secret mines of Ered Luin. But even there such a deep metal was rare and precious. Gimli’s hands itched to explore it, to feel the texture and hear its song. But he did not like Elrohir, did not trust him, so he watched him carefully.

The tall Elf walked slowly around the quiet camp, looking down at each one of them where they slept, though Gimli could not guess his purpose. Then he drew close to Gimli and glanced at him. Gimli met his eyes with his own challenging stare for he would not be cowed! 

‘Has he been quiet?’ Elrohir asked in a low voice. It was smooth, his voice, and rich, dark, the sort of voice that made you listen, that could soothe you into sleep or rouse you to battle, but Gimli was not going to allow Elrohir to have any guardianship of Legolas.

‘He is quiet now but a moment ago, he was very restless.’ Gimli paused, wondering if he should tell Elrohir that Legolas had cried out, and Gimli thought he had sounded so distressed. But it could have just been him calling for his father, mother, lover...So he said nothing and held the flame to his pipe instead, drawing on the pipe so it lit, deep brown eyes fixed on Elrohir all the while. 

Elrohir knelt beside Legolas and looked down at his face. He was not peaceful. Gimli could see his eyes were closed but beneath the lids, his eyes moved like he was watching something and his lips were parted; his breath came in short pants like he was terrified or running. Elrohir put his wrist over Legolas’ forehead and held it there, his eyes downcast and the fire made shadows of his lashes on his cheek. Had it been anyone else, Gimli would have described the act as a blessing or benediction, but he could not think it would be that from Elrohir.

‘I will give him more sere-vanda,’ Elrohir said and did not seem to notice the sharp look Gimli gave him. ‘It will keep him quiet.’

Gimli watched him disapprovingly, and drew on his pipe. The bitter taste of pipeweed on his tongue was overwhelmingly good and sharpened his senses. He let a long stream of smoke pour from his lips and then said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘Is it quiet that we want? Will that help him recover or hinder him? I had thought your brother said the fever needs to worsen and then will break.’

The grey eyes that met Gimli’s were intense and fierce but Gimli met them with an intensity of his own. A challenge. 

‘He need not suffer.’ Elrohir’s face was still, inscrutable as a carven image, but his voice crackled with suppressed irritation. ‘Sere-vanda is a sedative. It will not dampen the fever. He will still dream but it will be deep and he will not remember it when he awakens.’

‘I would rather you woke your brother first.’ Gimli folded his arms across his chest and chewed on the end of his pipe a little. Immoveable, he told himself, like the Mountain itself.

Elrohir stood quickly and his eyes flashed. ‘Then I will leave his care to you entirely since you do not trust me!’ he snapped in annoyance.

Gimli merely inclined his head. ‘That seems to be the way of it,’ he said.

Elrohir stared at him for a moment and then flung himself away, Gimli would have said flounced, but that seemed too slight to describe the simmering tension that surrounded this Elf warrior. 

Gimli settled himself back to watch, pleased that he had averted any attempt of Elrohir’s to jeopardize Legolas’ scarce recovery, but he wondered nonetheless if Elrohir had been right and if Gimli had caused him more pain. He sighed. He could only do his best and keep watch, a vigil, until morning and then Glorfindel and Amron could share the load.

Elrohir settled himself near Elladan but he did not lie down. He merely pulled his cloak about him and stared morosely into the fire. The scabbard of his sword lay to the side carefully, but he did not take it off and his hands often went to the hilt, Gimli noticed. The Elf stroked the polished handle as if he almost spoke to it. Well, that was not unheard of, Gimli thought, glancing at his own great war axe. But the fire that reflected in Elrohir’s eyes showed he did not sleep though all others in the camp did so apart from Amron, who was on watch and whom Gimli could see but dimly, standing amongst the trees on the ridge above the camp.

It was very quiet, the river rushed on below them and a light breeze sometimes rustled in the dead leaves that clung still to the branches. But there was no other sound. Above him, Gimli could see the stars and they wheeled above him like diamonds on black velvet. It was cold, the frost coming down from the high Mountains lay on the air in drifts, lightly falling, slowly, over the trees and grass like silver glitter. The fire crackled and Gimli spoke a word and the flames burned low and hot, hidden by the pit he had dug for the purpose.

In the quiet of the night, Legolas cried out. It was a quiet, low cry that was full of pain and misery, and both Elrohir and Gimli’s heads turned towards him. They waited. 

After a moment, Legolas turned his head away, eyes squeezed shut and his hands lifted heavily, fluttering in the air about him for a moment and then dropped back to his side. He gave another low moan and his legs thrashed for a moment, and then he was still.

Gimli drew on his pipe, savoured the smoke without knowing it, watching. Then he let it stream from his lips, eyes on Legolas’ pale face. Legolas fell quiet and still. He lay as if dead for a long moment and Gimli watched silently.

After a long while, there was another low moan, but this was not of pain but filled with anguish, like it sounded from the depths of his soul and was in torment. Gimli froze, pipe in hand and then leaned over and quietly placed his hand over Legolas’ forehead. He moved his fingers over the pale and clammy skin, three fingers, then tapped twice and dotted the tip of his forefinger, repeating the blessing three times as required by the Iglishmêk* and Legolas breathed in deeply through his nose and his chest rose and then fell as he exhaled heavily and settled. 

Gimli glanced up to see Elrohir watching intently, but he said nothing and when he saw Gimli watching him, he looked away.

Two hours passed and true to his word, Aragorn suddenly started and seemed to waken instantly. He sat up, pushed his hair back from his face and blinked roundly. Meeting Gimli’s eyes, the Man smiled and yawned. ‘I said I would relieve you,’ he said and Gimli nodded for he knew he would need some sleep if they were able to march that day. He did not think Legolas would be able to walk, so they would have Legolas to carry and Rhawion’s body too. He thought though that the body could be slung over one horse and Legolas carried on another perhaps. He was thinking this as he pulled his blanket about his shoulders and closed his eyes. Another thought was trying to make its way into his conscious mind, something he needed to do before he slept, but he could not remember what it was. And then sleep took him and it was too late to remember that he did not trust Elrohir with Legolas and wanted to warn Aragorn of that....

0o0o

He awoke suddenly. Loud voices, shocking out here in the quiet stillness of the Wild. Gimli’s mind fumbled with what he had been dreaming and what he heard. Strange voices, words he did not understand, the fire leaping and crackling uncontrolled, blazing, and beyond it, dark shapes struggled. Something flashed.

He pushed his blanket to one side and scrambled to his feet, blinking and groping for his small throwing axe, checking his knives. 

It was Legolas who was shouting. 

The blankets that had wrapped him were thrown, hurled perhaps to the far side of the camp. He stood staring about him wildly, half naked with those strange markings on his torso and arms like Gimli’s own Gunud-aglâb*, and a knife glinted dangerously in his hand. He waved it in front of him as he shouted, threatening Aragorn who stood too close though the Man’s hands were outstretched placatingly. To the side of Aragorn and half in darkness, was Elrohir, still and silent but watching intently; he knew it was Elrohir for the dark-bladed sword at his hip. Gimli could not follow what Aragorn was saying and then Legolas shouted over Aragorn, gesticulating murderously with his knife and he looked ready to leap at the Man’s throat. 

Suddenly it was dangerous and wild and Gimli felt that Legolas had no idea who they were or where he was. He caught Rhawion’s name amongst the stream of incoherent words, and Phellanthir. 

Gimli was aware of Elladan and Glorfindel, that both had leapt to their feet, swords already drawn when they too realised what was happening. In the firelight, the blades gleamed brightly, and the flames burned orange. 

Legolas backed away from them, the knife flashing as he brandished it again at Aragorn, shouting. His skin was corpse-pale and Gimli could see sweat shining on his skin. His eyes were huge and he stared about him, wide-eyed, terrified. He did not know them. Legolas whirled towards him, confused and desperate, the firelight flickering over his skin, the Gunud-aglâb* like markings on his naked chest. Gimli thought it made him suddenly vulnerable for it was an intrusion and he thought someone should have covered him up and not left him half-naked like this for them all to gawp at. No Dwarf would ever show his secret markings except in the ritual of the Mazar-kut.* 

Glorfindel slowly, quietly put down his sword now that he saw the only danger was from Legolas, and he spoke in a low soothing voice, taking one slow and careful step towards the Woodelf. He too mentioned Rhawion and Gimli frowned. Why were they all taking about Rhawion?

Glorfindel gestured into the shadows where they had put Rhawion’s body so Gimli thought he was reassuring Legolas that Rhawion was here, that he was dead. Sure enough, Legolas edged towards the dark place where the body was covered still by Elrohir’s cloak. He kept his knife pointing towards them as he moved and Gimli realised that he thought they were enemies. Perhaps he did not recognise any of them, that he had forgotten Rhawion was dead?

Without taking his eyes from them, Legolas moved to where the body was and glanced down. He flicked his gaze up again instantly, and with his free hand reached down to throw back the cloak to reveal the face of Rhawion. Legolas looked down again, and when he saw the cold stillness of Rhawion, he became transfixed. His face crumpled in anguished despair and he sank to his knees beside their dead comrade, crying out in his own tongue.

‘Díheno. Ah Rhawion! Díheno,’ he cried and he pressed his hands to his face. The knife was still clasped between his fingers and Glorfindel took a slow and careful step towards Legolas. Gimli dared not move for he had no idea what a distraught Woodelf could do, but he had seen their berserker fury, as his father had called it, in the Battle of the Five Armies and he could not predict how Legolas might behave now in such distress. 

A long stream of words poured from the distraught Elf, and Gimli wracked his brains for he could not remember what that meant though Bombour had tried to teach him. He could only pick out gwaedh which he knew meant oath or promise. Legolas let his hands fall to his sides now and he lifted his lovely stricken face to the skies and cried aloud a stream of words, and suddenly he set the knife against his own chest and with an anguished cry, cut a deep incision into the skin. A thick ribbon of blood welled from the cut. Aragorn cried out a protest and lurched forwards.

At the same time there was a blur of movement from the shadows and Elrohir launched himself at Legolas. Legolas whirled round and struck out hard with foot and knife, slamming his foot into Elrohir’s midriff and simultaneously slashing him across the cheek. But Elrohir caught his wrist and twisted so the knife flew from his fingers across the camp and skidded into the fire. Glorfindel and Aragorn launched themselves at Legolas and wrestled him to the ground. Between the three of them they pinned Legolas down. 

Legolas bucked and kicked and thrashed about, shouting, screaming, weeping now. He kicked out and Elladan fell back clutching his eye, but he threw himself back on top of the wildly struggling Elf, and Glorfindel was shouting now too. Aragorn was thrown off and kicked hard in the midriff. He bent over, winded and clutching his belly and looking up watching. Elrohir pressed his whole weight down on the Woodelf’s chest. Slowly the struggles became weaker and there was a moment of stillness before the heap of bodies suddenly lurched and struggled again as they tried to subdue the fever-stricken Woodelf beneath them.

Suddenly Legolas went limp and silent. His head rolled back and his hands relaxed.

For a moment, Glorfindel, Aragorn and Elrohir lay tense, Legolas quiet and still beneath them. Then they all seemed to talk at once, in quick urgent voices and Aragorn reached towards Elladan who was rummaging, one handed, through his pack. Hurrying over to them, Gimli saw that Elladan had in his hand a rolled up pouch that clinked quietly, so it must have some metal implements, Gimli surmised, and a small vial with an amber liquid sloshing in it.

Aragorn glanced at Gimli then and said, ‘Gimli, please will you hold his feet so I can help Elladan.’

Gimli nodded and crouched down, put his strong hands firmly on Legolas’ feet and felt him tense. ‘He is going to fight again!’ he warned and immediately they pressed down on him.

‘Careful! He is still very weak,’ Elladan said, squatting beside Legolas. ‘Perhaps we should bind him. He will fight as soon as we let go.’ 

‘I have him. He will not fight.’ Elrohir had Legolas’ right arm pinned beneath him and his weight against the Mirkwood Elf’s shoulder. His hand was pressed over Legolas’ forehead so he could not lift his head up. The Woodelf’s eyes remained closed but his lips moved and he mumbled incoherently. 

Aragorn pulled away from the tangle of bodies now that Gimli had Legolas’ feet and knees, and the Man knelt behind Elladan and unrolled the velvet pouch to reveal a number of scalpels and other implements. He selected a fine needle and threaded it. ‘We need to get that cut stitched while he’s quiet.’

‘He’s not quiet yet,’ Gimli warned, in spite of Elrohir’s assurances, feeling the strong muscles tense. ‘He is pretending.’

And on cue, Legolas suddenly gave an enormous buck and surged upwards, throwing off Gimli from his feet, and Glorfindel. He shouted loudly, furiously, and Gimli knew this was not Sindarin but the Black Speech, and for a moment he thought perhaps that Legolas had been possessed. Elrohir still hung onto his arm however and suddenly, with enormous strength, he shoved the Woodelf over so he lay on his stomach and threw himself onto Legolas’ back, twisting Legolas’ arm up behind him. 

‘Bind him then, curse him!’ Elrohir shouted and Elladan grabbed the reins of his horse’s bridle, the first thing to hand. Quickly he wound them about Legolas’ wrists, pulled them back so his arms were tightly bound behind his back. Legolas writhed and struggled in pain, shouting, cursing whilst Elrohir forced his head back and Elladan shoved the vial between his clenched teeth and poured the liquid into his mouth. Legolas shook his head and would not swallow until Elrohir half lifted him and threw him hard back onto the ground. The shock made him gasp and splutter and some of the liquid he spat out but some he could not help but swallow. 

It was then that Gimli heard him sob and saw the tears and desperation in Legolas’ green eyes. Suddenly Gimli could not bear it and pushed between them all.

‘Here, stop that. He is not an Orc. That will not do.’ He snatched the vial from Elladan and knelt beside Legolas’ head. 

‘No, he is not an Orc but the poison that is still within him will do as good a job as any Orc if we do not stop it!’ Glorfindel suddenly snapped. ‘And if he carries on with this noise, it will draw Orcs here, sure as daylight. And they will finish off what the poison did not!’

‘I know this!’ Gimli shot back. ‘But this is not the way.’ Gimli looked down with intense compassion at Legolas’ terrified face. Then he lowered his voice so it was like the deep stone heart of the Mountain, like gravel in the river, like the rocks of the Forest streams. ‘Legolas, it is me, Gimli Gloinsson.’ The Elf looked up at him, and slowly his eyes focused on Gimli’s face and seemed to clear a little. There were tears in his eyes, and he looked so unhappy and bewildered that it wrenched Gimli’s heart strangely. Gently, he said, ‘I am here because you need help, Legolas. Whatever it is you need to do, I will help you. Tell me.’

Legolas panted, heaving breath into his crushed lungs and Gimli glared at Glorfindel himself who looked embarrassed and shifted to ease the pressure off his chest. 

‘Tell me what you need. How I can help you, my poor friend?’ Gimli gazed deep into the Elf’s green eyes and hummed lightly under his breath. And Legolas took a breath that seemed to shiver through his whole body.

‘It hurts,’ he murmured and Gimli slowly put his hand out and patted the Elf’s arm.

‘I know. It will pass if you can take this medicine. Ell...Glorfindel is here. He is worried about you. Will you drink this?’

Legolas shook his head wildly. ‘No. I cannot. It will make me sleep and I have to get back.’

Gimli frowned but kept his voice low and even and breathed rhythmically, slowing the Elf’s fluttering, fevered breath. ‘Where do you have to go?’

Legolas blinked and sweat drenched his face, dampened his pale hair. ‘Phellanthir.’ 

Gimli heard a breath from Glorfindel and murmured concern but he ignored them all, focused on Legolas. ‘No. You do not have to go there. It is empty now,’ he said reassuringly. ‘The Nazgul has been vanquished by Glorfindel and we are all safe.’

‘No! No, we are not!’ Legolas struggled to free himself. ‘Rhawion is there. He is trapped! I promised I would not leave him!’ And then, as if suddenly becoming aware once more that he was bound, trapped, he cried aloud and renewed his struggles. ‘Help me, Gimli. It is suffocating me! Swallowing me up!’

Gimli glared at Elrohir who simply glared back. ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’ snarled the son of Elrond. ‘Get off him? Release him to cut himself more or to run back to the Tower? Surely he will run faster than any of us and elude us all?’

Gimli narrowed his eyes at Elrohir and then carefully, chastely, placed his hand on the Elf’s bare shoulder. ‘Can you trust me, my friend? If I can throw off this thing that is suffocating you, will you trust me? Do not run from me.’

Legolas’ fevered green eyes searched his intently and then he moved his head as much as he could. ‘Yes. I will trust you. You have some Dwarven magic that will help?’

‘Yes. I will throw off this Nazgul that is suffocating you,’ he said with a glare at Elrohir who stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and shifted his weight off Legolas, rolled onto his knees, but appeared ready at a moment to pounce back. Gimli quickly unwound the reins from round his wrists, noting the red marks where he had struggled against the thin leather. ‘There. It is gone.’ Gimli shifted closer to Legolas and took his hand in his. Legolas breathed deeply and let his head drop back in relief. ‘Now, will you not tell me what is going on?’ Gimli settled back on his heels. ‘Here,’ he said and leaned forward to help Legolas into a sitting position. ‘Sit up. Is that better?’ 

Gimli tried not to look at the deep cut on his chest, inflicted in that moment of wild despair. Blood welled up from the cut, was smeared across his chest. But Legolas seemed oblivious to all else now and scuttled close to Gimli, eyes still intent upon his and grasped both Gimli’s wide, square hands in his own long elegant ones. If Gimli thought Legolas weak before, which he did not, the grip on his hands would quickly dispel this, for the Dwarf had to gently prise Legolas’ fingers from his and loosen his grip or even his strong hands would have been crushed. 

‘Rhawion is still in that place,’ Legolas said earnestly. ‘And I swore I would not leave him. I thought he was with me but he is not here.’

‘Ah, Legolas.’ Gimli shook his head sadly. ‘He is dead. You have seen that.’

But Legolas clutched at Gimli’s hands and stared at him, his eyes huge and feverish in that gaunt, pale face. ‘No, not his body. They killed him, I know. But the Nazgul has his soul, Gimli. He is trapped in that place, consumed by the Dark, swallowed...’ His voice became a low whisper. ‘I swore not to leave him there, Gimli. I swore an Oath and I must go back.’

Gimli cast a worried look over his shoulder at Glorfindel to see the same look mirrored on the Elf-lord’s face. ‘Show him Rhawion again,’ Glorfindel murmured, reluctant to disturb Legolas’ trust of Gimli.

Gimli turned slowly back to Legolas. ‘You have seen his body, Legolas. You brought him out of the Tower yourself.’

Legolas leaned closer to Gimli and grasped his arm in a grip that would have a Man wincing in pain. ‘I brought his body out, yes, his hroa. But his feä. Gimli, his spirit. It is still there, in the Dark. The Nazgûl...’ He leaned still closer so Gimli felt his breath on his cheek, and was captivated by the fear and terror in the long green eyes. ‘The Nazgul has his soul.’

Gimli felt the indrawn breath of Glorfindel nearby and his own heart thudded wildly. ‘I do not think you can be right in this, Legolas. Surely you Elves believe in a Doomsman who calls you hence to wherever you go?’

Legolas shifted even closer to Gimli and Gimli could only stare into the strange green eyes that were flecked with gold and seemed so otherworldly, alien. ‘I do not believe in the Doomsman. In the Wood, we have only the Earth, the Wind, the Forest...’ It sounded like the lines of a ritual to Gimli but Legolas’ next words chilled him. ‘There is nothing beyond the Veil in that place.’ And Gimli knew he meant the haunted Phellanthir and cold crept down Gimli’s spine at the words. ‘Just the Eternal Dark.’ 

Gimli saw himself reflected in the pupils dark and wide with fear and he suddenly felt the world tilt, and thought a coil of darkness slid over his shoulder, round his neck. It seemed to writhe and slither over his jaw, to force itself between his teeth, wrap itself around his eyes so he was blind and suffocating. He felt his own breath leave his body like it was his last and thought his own limbs convulsed and thrashed, tearing at the coiled shadow that opened its jaw to swallow him....

He fell backwards and the spell was broken. He heard Glorfindel speaking urgently, fear in his voice but it felt like he was far, far away. There was blurred movement and he felt himself pushed gently back down to the earth and he did not try to get up. Instead he let strong, gentle hands move him and a face swam in his vision. The scent of something lovely suffused the air quite suddenly and he drifted... Rosemary, he thought, maybe bergamot too...and maybe honeysuckle. The sweetness of it made him remember home. Not Erebor. But home. The old forge in the Blue Mountains where he and Gloin had made utensils, toys, trinkets for the Men of the West Marches and the Elves of Mithlond. The smell of cooking, of the leather apron of his mother and...and...suddenly his eyes stung with tears.

When he blinked, he saw Aragorn’s face looking at him with kind concern. He held a cup of some sort of infusion before Gimli and it was that he could smell. The Man was calling Gimli softly by name and for a moment, he thought Aragorn used his name, but he was not. It was the scent of the infusion, he thought, coupled with the terror of Legolas’ visions that made him so weak and vulnerable.

‘I am well enough now,’ he said gruffly but he clasped the Man’s hand nonetheless for he was grateful. ‘Legolas? How is he?’

Aragorn looked briefly over his shoulder and Gimli became aware of a wailing beyond him that at first he thought was some wild animal being horribly killed. But it was Legolas he reailsed for he heard words in the dreadful cries and pathetic whimpers.

‘You have to make him quiet!’ Elrohir’s voice was saying insistently and Gimli thought he agreed for the sound pierced the night and it would surely carry. 

Elladan’s own voice came back in a furious whisper. ‘I know! What do you suggest?’

‘Give him to me.’

There was a pause when all he could hear was a terrible pleading from Legolas and then he peered over Aragorn’s shoulder to see that the fire was burning more brightly as if it fed off the fear. Orange firelight cast them all as demons of shadow and flame, and Gimli thought how the Sons of Elrond looked like dread lords of terror, for their faces were fair and grim and they locked their gaze with each other for a long moment and then they both leaned forward and Gimli could not see Legolas anymore. A long wail went up in the night, and suddenly stopped, as if it had been choked off.

‘What have they done to him?’ Gimli demanded and pushed himself to his feet, shoved past Aragorn.

Glorfindel stood nearby, looking down at Legolas and the Sons of Elrond held him between them. He was limp, head was fallen forward onto his chest, where a thin dressing now bound the self-inflicted wound, and his long, pale hair hung over his face. His hands were bound once more and somehow, that shamed Gimli more than anything. 

‘What have you done to him?’ Gimli demanded, more insistently. 

One of them looked up, his face hard and inscrutable. It was Elrohir, Gimli realised from the black sword at his hip. ‘We have silenced him. He is still now.’ He turned away and looked at his brother. It was strange to see them both, looking at each other with the same hard eyes. 

Gimli stared, not knowing what to say. It was true that the noise Legolas was making was bringing danger to them all, but the piteous sight of his limp body laying between them was almost too much for the Dwarf to bear. ‘Will he be all right now?’ he asked, knowing it was weak.

‘No.’ Elladan said shortly. ‘No, he will not be all right.’ He threw an angry look at his brother. 

Elrohir merely looked stonily at Gimli. ‘The terror would kill him if the poison did not,’ he said insistently. Elladan looked away and Elrohir continued, ‘We need to subdue him, and then break the fever. We have sedated him heavily and now a drug must be given him that will intensify the fever so it breaks quickly. Aragorn will tend him when we have gone.’

‘And where are you going?’ Gimli demanded. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, made himself one with the rock, the stone, so they would know he would not be moved, would not be ignored in this, he would be heard and understood. Obeyed.

There was a pause, uncomfortable, and then Glorfindel stepped between Gimli and the sons of Elrond. ‘They have to leave,’ he said, nodding towards the two Elves. ‘We cannot delay them any longer for their errand will take them now over the Misty Mountains. We will have to try to get Legolas back to Imladris without them.’

‘You must delay!’ Gimli protested. ‘Surely your errand cannot be so serious that you would lose him for the sake of carrying it out? He will die without your aid.’ He threw them a challenging, outraged look but neither looked at him, their grey eyes locked with the other’s and they did not move or speak.

Glorfindel put his hand gently on Gimli’s shoulder. ‘It is more important, I fear, Gimli. More important than any of us.’ And Gimli knew then that somehow their errand was connected with the One Ring. He looked away.

‘We will delay our leave until first light.’ Elladan spoke then and it seemed he spoke for both of them for the other nodded. ‘We will do what we can to bring him peace, but we can delay no longer than that. I will tend Legolas until then and Aragorn will care for him after.’

And with that, Gimli had to be content.

 

00o0o0o

 

Elladan sat staring into the fire and occasionally threw a stick onto the low flames to feed them. It had been some hours since Legolas had awoken, screaming, overwhelmed by the ferocity of the poison, drawing his own knife upon himself, and now he lay sedated, heavily, with sere-vanda. 

Too heavily, Elladan wondered. But he had been frightened that they might lose Legolas and in the end, he conceded uneasily to Elrohir’s insistence that they subdue him. And then they had had no choice but to give Legolas heavier and heavier doses of sere-vanda and Elrohir had forced upon Legolas the powerful Cristôl, Dream-Cleaver, as it was called by the Rangers. This would intensify the fever enough for it to break whilst he was sedated by the sere-vanda, although it was more a hope than certainty. But as Elrohir kept pointing out, Aragorn was more than capable of nursing a feverish Woodelf. It did not need Elladan too to sit and wait so they would leave at first-light.

It was not yet dawn however, and Elladan had time yet to soothe and heal the frightened Woodelf, to let his calm blue peace spread through him, easing his distress and torment, smoothing the nerves and knitting muscles and skin and cells...He conjured images of starlight and stroked them across the Woodelf’s thoughts, of new leaves unfurling in the Spring, of sunlight spangling on water like blue silk. He let his thoughts drift, let his Power stroke gently across Legolas’ wrangled body and troubled mind... 

In the firelight, Elrohir moved slightly and Elladan glanced towards him but Elrohir gave no answering look or movement, no sign of support or reassurance. Firelight reflected in his eyes and he continued to look stonily into the fire, one hand resting on his knee, the other on the hilt of the dark-bladed sword, his cloak cast to the side. Nearby, a low hump that was Gimli snored lightly and settled, and Amron lay with his hands crossed on his breast and eyes half-closed.

Elladan turned back to Legolas for a moment, noted the pale skin, cold and clammy, and the sweat on his brow but he was quieter, which was just as well for he dared not give Legolas more of either drug. Just then Legolas gave a deep sigh and seemed to settle more deeply into sleep.

Elladan’s fingers drifted to the hilt of his dagger, smooth and well-worn by hands long, long years before he had been given it. He twirled it between his fingers, watching the firelight flash upon the blade, turn the runes liquid, watched how the words formed, fascinated. 

Now that Legolas was calm, he turned his thoughts to his brother. He was angry with Elrohir’s insistence on forcing drugs upon Legolas, he had questioned whether they should intensify the fever, force it to break, for the terror had been so great in Legolas it was almost a cruelty. Had it been anyone but Elrohir, he would have refused. But Elrohir was a great healer and in battling fever and poison, he surpassed even Elrond; he would not yield, was unrelenting, determined to the point of self-destruction. So Elladan would have usually deferred to him in all cases of fevers.

If it was anyone but Legolas. For it was Elrohir’s reactions to Legolas that bothered him now.

Elladan let his eyes focus on the flames of the fire and half-aware, he twirled his dagger between his fingers, half-mesmerized, let his eyes go wide in the dark, thought about what had happened only hours before...

When Legolas had resisted, Elrohir had wrestled with him, with a suppressed violence, thrown him down to make him swallow the sere-vanda. But when Elrohir went to force the second dose, had been leaning over Legolas to force the sere-vanda down his throat and the Woodelf was struggling and choking and fighting, Legolas had looked up and quite suddenly it changed from being a battle to healing; his long green eyes, bright with fever, had fastened upon Elrohir’s. In that moment, he gazed almost in adoration, and had swallowed the sedative trustingly, never taking his eyes from Elrohir’s face.

And Elrohir too had changed; he had cradled Legolas’ head almost tenderly to give him the sere-vanda. Gently he had let Legolas sip from the vial so the drug slowly, kindly took him down to sleep. It seemed at first that Legolas had touched some tender spot in his heart. 

As Elrohir had looked down, his eyes were soft, baffled, but quite abruptly he had gone rigid - as if he had seen something that horrified him, some dreadful foresight perhaps, or memory unlocked by the pale gold hair damp with sweat and the trusting, fevered eyes fixed upon his...For he had suddenly cried out and thrust Legolas away, staggered to his feet with his hand clasped over his mouth as if he had seen some horror...

Elladan stared into the orange flames, let his own grey eyes go wide in half-reverie. And he wondered what had made Elrohir start so. Time spun on and he felt Elrohir’s strange mood, his restlessness and something else. If it were anyone other than Elrohir, he would say it was fear. Or some secret guilt. 

 

TBC.

 

Notes  
Iglishmêk* - the gesture language of the Dwarves.   
Gunud-aglâb -secret language, in this respect it is the secret tattoos of the Dwarvish clans. Gimli compares his own secret tattoos with Legolas’ yarë-carmé (ancient art) which is cult-based and for identifying the bodies and body parts in Mirkwood.   
Mazar-kut The Secret Fire. In this respect, a Dwarvish ritual of initiation, regeneration and renewal.  
Díheno - Forgive me. Silvan dialect of Sindarin word

Thank you to those lovely people who review.


	16. Aragorn

Thank you as always to those who review- it DOES make a difference and keeps me writing.  
As always thank you to my wonderful beta, Anarithilien and to Spiced Wine and Melusine for their extra input.

 

Summary: Legolas has been wounded very slightly in Phellanthir when they were hunting the Nazgûl. Rhawion has been killed. Legolas' wound is poisoned and part of the pattern of the poison is to cause intense hallucination that can end with heart failure and fever etc leading to organ failure. Elladan and Elrohir have treated the wound but rather controversially. This is the same night.

 

Chapter 16: Aragorn

Still a few more hours before dawn, Elladan noted, throwing more sticks onto the low burning fire. His eye hurt where Legolas had punched him, he rubbed it gently, thinking that there might well be a bruise tomorrow. He felt a moment's relief that they had subdued Legolas so quickly and that he did not have his long white knives close to hand, or his bow. Elladan was not the only one with minor injuries; at the edge of the camp Glorfindel was dabbing a cloth to his split lip, and Aragorn was touching his side gingerly and flexing his arm as if checking for broken ribs.

Elladan sighed and squinted, wondering if he had a black eye or if it merely felt like one. He glanced across to where Elrohir still sat, drawing a whetting stone along Aícanaro's dark blade and Elladan had the strangest sensation that the sword seemed to uncoil and stretch languidly. He had felt such things before but the sword's sentience still made the hair on his scalp prickle. Elrohir alone seemed to have escaped injury, but now and again his steel-grey eyes flicked up and fastened upon the fevered Woodelf. The flames reflected eerily in Elrohir's eyes and Elladan could not read the strange expression on his face. There had been that moment of tenderness between Legolas and Elrohir but how quickly that had turned into something other, something that horrified Elrohir and he had pushed away from Legolas as if afraid.

There was movement beside him and broke into his musings. Looking up, he saw that Aragorn had come to join him. He watched the Man settle and wince slightly, wrapping his cloak around himself for the night air was cold and the sky clear. Rummaging for a moment, Aragorn pulled his long thin pipe from somewhere between the folds of his cloak and tunic and drew out his pipeweed pouch.

Elladan lifted an eyebrow disapprovingly. 'Adar would not like to see you with that,' he cautioned. And then with a slight smile, 'Nor Arwen.' For he and Elrohir had long known the secrets of the Man they owned even now as brother

'She likes the smell of it,' Aragorn grinned irrepressibly and Elladan was glad for too often of late had Aragorn looked pensive and drawn when Arwen was mentioned. Now the Man struck his tinderbox. A flame flared and then died back, leaving a smaller flame which he brought to the bowl of the pipe and pressed his lips together to make that funny put-put noise, drawing in air to light the pipe, and that Elladan had grown to associate entirely with Aragorn. Aragorn settled himself comfortably, leaning on one elbow and stretched out his long legs and the bitter-fragrant smoke teased Elladan's nose.

Gimli snored suddenly and rolled over to his side, cradling his head more comfortably on his strong arm. In the firelight his glossy chestnut hair caught the light strangely, like fireflies had alit in his hair. He wore his chain mail beneath his tunic and cloak even as he slept and Elladan wondered at the hardiness and strength in that sturdy form.

Prodding the low fire, he stared for a moment into the flames. Gimli had kindled the fire and Elladan wondered if that was why it burned hotter though its flames were low and seemed to burn less brightly, as if they sensed somehow the need for secrecy and warmth.

'You still intend to leave at dawn then?' Aragorn asked, though he knew Elladan and Elrohir had already delayed longer than they had intended. Their errand was too important, and already they were later than their father and Mithrandir would want. Galadriel had to be warned and her wisdom sought before the year waned.

'Winter is deep upon Caradhras,' Elrohir said pointedly from the fireside.

Elladan agreed; any later and Winter might stop them from crossing by the Redhorn Gate, and they dared not go through the Gap of Rohan. Not with Gandalf's news of Saruman's betrayal. And they would not risk Moria, nor even speak of it. Elladan stared into the flames, remembering. Only once had the brothers passed through the Pit, Aragorn with them and the memory of it weighed upon them all. He glanced across at Aragorn who shivered slightly as if his thoughts followed the same path and pulled his cloak more closely about himself.

'You know our errand,' Elladan said to him. 'So you know too that we have already delayed too long. You will have charge of Legolas then.' He looked up questioningly. 'Will you be all right?'

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow and looked faintly exasperated.

Elladan gave a short laugh and held up his hands. 'Very well. Yes, I know. But it still feels like you are my little brother. It is hard to see you like this.' He took in the tall lean frame, the beginning of grey in the Man's hair and a pang of loss hit him and he almost gasped with it. It was too little time, too short the span of a Man's life.

Elladan felt Elrohir's impatient watchfulness shift to concern but neither spoke. They had lived with it for too long, seen too many Men fall. They had both loved Arathorn.

Unaware, Aragorn merely smiled in slight exasperation. 'Little brother?' he asked wryly and then drew on his pipe and then a moment later, reached for his pack and shoved it behind himself, shifted it about one handed until it was comfortable. Then he leaned back again, resting against it.

'How is Legolas?' he asked, with a nod towards the unconscious Elf and Elladan was pulled back into the present.

'If the Cristôl has taken hold, it will begin fighting the poison and then he will begin vomiting, trying to purge himself of it,' he said with a sigh. Then he remembered the Dwarf's strange protectiveness and simple ingenuity and it heartened him. 'Gimli braided Legolas' hair to keep it out of the way,' he said with a smile. 'And he scraped a shallow pit here. Look how he left the soil loose so we can quickly cover anything he brings up.'

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. 'I wonder if this will be a friendship such as Narvi and Celebrimbor.'

Elladan smiled. 'I cannot imagine Legolas in a forge or making anything more difficult than an arrow,' he said lightly. 'But a friendship between these two might bind their two peoples in the dreadful times ahead. For War is coming, no doubt.'

'An alliance between Elves and Dwarves in the North?' mused Aragorn. 'Well worth the experiment.'

'Who would have thought the old conjurer could be so right,' Elladan said drily.

Aragorn gave him an answering smile. Silently he smoked his pipe and Elladan followed his gaze to where Legolas lay in a feverish, sweaty daze. No doubt locked by the drug, Cristôl into a dream of Phellanthir and the Nazgûl, convinced that he had abandoned Rhawion to a terrible doom where he was forever trapped in the Dark, Nazgûl's prey...

Elladan shuddered and looked with compassion upon Legolas. Blood spotted the white linen strips they had used to dress the self-inflicted wound on Legolas' chest. Aragorn had been the one to stitch the cut for he had a neat hand. Elladan noted too that the edges of the dressing were already wet with sweat, and the Woodelf's hair was damp; the one thick braid that Gimli had tied it into was pulled to the side but tendrils had escaped and were plastered across his face. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes moved rapidly as if he were watching something distressing in his heavy, drugged sleep.

Aragorn shifted slightly and took his pipe from between his lips and looked at it. Then he said, as though casually, 'I know Cristôl isthe antidote to Lhach-Rhaw ... But you are sure that this is the right course for him?'

Elladan glanced up and found the Man's eyes upon him, concerned, questioning, uncertain.

'I know that Elrond created it, but he counsels careful use of it,' Aragorn went on and his eyes glanced briefly at Elrohir and then back to Elladan. 'He says that you should give only a small amount, and sometimes we should not use it at all but let the poisons purge naturally.'

And Elrohir had often argued with Elrond that they should use it more frequently despite the after-effect, Elladan thought. It was yet another way for father and son to fight. But Elrohir was by far the best healer for poisons and venoms; he fought them like he fought Orcs. But even Elladan thought Elrohir had been brutal with Legolas, had forced it into him with more violence than healing.

'Would you prefer the poison ran rampant through his body, destroying his organs, poisoning his blood? ' A voice cut through the quiet. Elrohir. 'It will kill him.' He had ceased whetting Aícanaro and was looking towards them. 'This is the only way.'

Aragorn looked away but he fiddled with the ring on his finger and turned and turned it and Elladan knew he was distressed for it put him once again in the position of choosing between the man whom he saw as his father and the man he saw as his brother. Elladan's heart swelled with a tender pang for them all, and wished, not for the first time or the last, that somehow his brother and father could see how much they hurt not only each other, but those around them whom they both loved.

'You will not give him a second dose though?' Aragorn asked hesitantly, and Elladan saw what it cost him to challenge Elrohir.

'Why not?' Elrohir went back to Aícanaro, sliding a silk cloth along it now and did not see the look on Aragorn's face, the hurt at being so easily disregarded.

'You know the risks,' Aragorn persisted. Elrohir did not pause but continued to stroke Aícanaro with silk, like it soothed him. 'Do you not think we should give him a chance to throw it off now? Increasing the dose will plunge him further into those...nightmares...Could it not cause greater risk?'

'Increasing the dose of the anti-venom will hasten the climax.' Elrohir did look up now. 'Do you think it better to extend the fever, allow the poison more leverage in his body?' He was the healer now, the teacher. 'You know its effects, Aragorn. It will flood his bloodstream and attack every organ, every part of him. What he experiences now is an illusion. The sere-vanda makes it a dream, nothing more. If you leave the poison with nothing to fight it, it will kill him'

Aragorn paused, then took a breath and continued, 'And what of the after-effect? What of the damage it might do to his nerves, his sight?'

'That is unlikely,' Elrohir said. 'He said himself he has thrown off venoms before with no ill effect. He is Woodelf anyway. He will be used to drug-induced dreams.'

Elladan looked up in distress, feeling the swirl of anger beginning in his brother's breast, the choking guilt and failure. He began to protest, to stop them from going further.

'It is a harsh dream to have out here in the Wild.' Aragorn's eyes locked with Elrohir's.

'More dangerous, less wise, as Mithrandir himself says,' Elrohir said coldly and looked back down to Aícanaro resting on his lap. 'One more or less will make little difference. They cannot even protect their own.' It was so dismissive and contemptuous that Aragorn gasped and Elladan cringed.

'Elrohir, when did you become so quick to judge another's failure?' It was gently given but a reproof nonetheless, and from Glorfindel who stood at the edge of the camp. He had overheard all.

Elrohir turned slowly, his eyes hardened and filled with barely suppressed fury. 'The day Elven warriors allowed my mother to be captured, the day Orcs tortured her and all the joy went out of our lives,' he said and rose to his feet. Aícanaro was clenched in his fist, and seemed to uncoil, to lick the air, tasting it, the tension and fury. Elrohir stood glaring at Glorfindel but the Elf lord did not back down. So finally it had been said. Had he always blamed Glorfindel, thought Elladan, surprised.

'You are not alone in your loss. And there have been other losses,' he reminded Elrohir gently.

'Do you mean Gondolin?' Elrohir sneered. Elladan reached out and put his hand upon his brother's shoulder but he merely shook him off. 'Elves who cowered in their city of stone while others gave their lives to stand against Morgoth.'

Elladan had never seen Glorfindel truly angry apart from in battle but suddenly he seemed incandescent, like a flaming torch, his hair seemed alight and his blue eyes like cold fire. Lightning could not be more charged than the look he gave Elrohir. Even Elrohir took a step back. 'Erestor has been filling your heads with Feänorian propaganda,' Glorfindel said tightly, with bitter anger. 'Get yourself up there on watch and out of my sight so I can forgive you your stupidity.'

Elrohir gave a short laugh and sheathed Aícanaro. 'You fight with me over this Woodelf! I hope you enjoy him then. Everyone else has.'

Elladan shook his head and stepped away from his twin. When he was in this temper there was no reasoning with him, no sense, only fury. Elrohir stalked out of the clearing up to the ridge. Glorfindel stared after him, his arms by his sides and fists clenched as if he had to control himself, though he said nothing.

Elladan could see Glorfindel had been deeply shocked by what Elrohir had said and troubled. Indeed, he had himself and though he felt he should defend Erestor in this, he said nothing; it was not the time and then Glorfindel threw his cloak about himself and strode away down towards the river.

Elladan sighed and glanced at Aragorn. The Man was sitting by the fire, an orange glow reflecting on his skin and his eyes thoughtful and concerned. They exchanged a look. Elladan looked up at the ridge where Elrohir had gone.

'Go after him if you think it will do any good,' Aragorn said, but both knew it was useless so Elladan dropped to the ground beside Aragorn. Aragorn pulled out his pipe, looked at it irritably as though it had gone out on purpose and then lit it once again.

Elladan breathed through his nose and shifted. He glanced at Legolas' still, pale face shining with sweat but corpse-pale and cold. Elladan found his fingers stroking the hilt of his knife, the metal smoothed by hands before it was his, long, long ago. It comforted him strangely though perhaps it should not. It reminded him too of the complexity of his relationship with his brother, the absolute love, loyalty, and the absolute bewilderment sometimes that he felt at Elrohir's actions.

'He went too far this time, Elladan,' Aragorn said after a while. 'I have not seen him like this before. He seems so furious. I thought it might have been the effect of the Ring at first but he has been even worse since we left Imladris,' he observed and Elladan thought that was true. Elrohir had not been ready to come home, had not slaked his hurt and guilt and hunger sufficiently and they would not have returned at all had they not heard that the Nazgûl had attacked Imladris. And then it had seemed to get so much worse once they began this journey. Legolas had made it so much worse with killing the Orc, thought Elladan, but Elrohir had already expressed unreasonable hatred of the Mirkwood Elf even before that, he mused and frowned.

It seemed Aragorn's thoughts were similar. 'You saw the way he forced Legolas to drink the Cristôl,' he said baffled. 'He did not control the amount. You saw how brutal he was. It could seriously affect him.'

Elladan agreed but he said nothing. It was Aragorn's distress that made him speak, for he never, ever criticized his brothers and Elladan would never speak ill of Elrohir, not even to Aragorn.

'What if it was too much? If he awakens, he might think he has to return to Phellanthir,' Aragorn said, anxiety edging his voice. 'Is it not true that he could awaken and be trapped in his illusion? He could think it real?'

Elladan could see that Aragorn was considering, remembering the night and Legolas' terrible hallucination. He felt his own skin crawl at the memory; in Legolas' mind the Nazgûl had transformed into some great serpent that had wrapped its coils around Legolas, and opened its horrible jaws to swallow him into the Dark, the Void that all Elves feared. Was that what had happened in Phellanthir, Elladan wondered, and knew it had. Was it worse that Legolas was convinced that Rhawion's feä was somehow trapped in Phellanthir, somehow a prisoner of the Nazgûl? He shuddered and felt the hairs on his scalp stand stiffly, on one side of his body, like something had brushed against him in the darkness.

Aragorn too, looked around him suddenly as if he too felt it. He saw how Aragorn's eyes sought his sword, leaning against a nearby tree and found his knife in his own hand and clutched it tightly. The hilt warmed his palm, and the warmth spread up his arm like a reassurance. It did not burn blue and he felt the hairs on his body slowly flatten and smooth. He suddenly met Aragorn's grey eyes and both gave a rueful smile. Elladan took his hand from the hilt of his knife and shook his head at himself, but the power of those images stayed with him.

At that moment, Legolas turned his head and cried out something too confused for Elladan to understand and he leaned forwards again and placed his hand gently on Legolas' forehead, then felt for his pulse. The vein in his neck throbbed alarmingly, his heart was racing and skin was clammy, drenched in sweat. This was the Cristôl taking effect, forcing the fever, fighting the ensorcelled poison with its own properties enhanced by Vilya.

Legolas lurched suddenly sideways and retched.

Elladan scrambled to Legolas' side and held him as he convulsed, moved him gently so he retched into the hole in the earth that Gimli had dug out for him. Black bile forced its way out of his mouth, trickled down his chin. Aragorn crouched beside him, pulled back the long thick plait of Legolas' hair and wiped the Elf's mouth with a cloth.

'Hold him while I give him more sere-vanda,' Elladan said, glancing at Aragorn. Neither spoke of Cristôl again and Elladan hoped that by drugging him into oblivion at least, as Elrohir had said, the terrible hallucinations would be no more than a dream.

Elladan realised his hurt eye throbbed a little and he rubbed it. He blinked and then looked down to pour a measure of sere-vanda into a flask. He cupped the back of Legolas' head and raised him up a little and held the flask to Legolas' lips.

Legolas' eyes were a mere seam of dark green beneath a fringe of lashes, the lovely face closed in pain ... for it was a lovely face. Elladan tipped the flask up so the amber liquid trickled into Legolas' mouth. A generous mouth, thought Elladan realising he had thought so before, ready to laugh and love. There was a fine chain around his neck and a small oak leaf, gold, mithril, and Elladan thought perhaps it was a gift, from a lover. It had the look of a love-keepsake, he thought. Perhaps then, Legolas had a lover back in Mirkwood.

Legolas lurched forwards again and retched violently. There was a vomit of black liquid that shot from his mouth and he cried out, eyes scrunched up. Elladan saw how Aragorn held Legolas steady and when he had finished, wiped his mouth gently with a cloth. Then he moved Legolas' head back to rest against his own shoulder. For a moment Aragorn rested his free hand lightly on the Elf's shoulder. Beneath his hand the painted swirls seemed to eddy and undulate. Elladan knew it was a trick of the light, but Aragorn suddenly pulled back his hand as if he had been bitten.

He gasped and shook his head at himself, then looked down again at the strange patterns etched onto the Mirkwood Elf's skin. 'I thought for a moment...' he began.

Elladan smiled and nodded. 'Yes, it looks like there's something watching you. I thought so too at first.' He and Aragorn carefully lowered Legolas to the blankets again and pulled the blanket up over his chest. With the compassionate quiet of the healer, he let his blue peace and calm spread from his hands, his fingers, and wrap itself gently around Legolas, let it suffuse the air around him. He remained for a moment, quiet and still until Legolas too grew quieter, more peaceful

At last he settled back and threw another stick on the fire, watched it catch light and burn slowly orange.

'I have faith in you, Aragorn,' he said gently. 'You are one of the most gifted Healers I have ever known. More even than your father.'

He saw how Aragorn's face subtly shifted, and then the Man dropped his head and Elladan saw how his fingers twisted the Ring of Barahir as he always did when his father was mentioned. And then he looked up, meeting Elladan's eyes, full of hope, of vulnerability, wanting to hear more of his father.

'He would have been proud of you,' Elladan said quietly, wishing Arathorn could have lived to see the Man his son had become.

Elladan felt his own pang of loss and sorrow, for he had loved Arathorn too, had loved them all- the Heirs of Isildur, each one hoping to be the One who would restore his House. Now here was one who outshone them all. And like his forefathers, one day he too would be mere ashes and dust.

Elladan blinked hard and glanced up at the sky. How quickly the stars seemed to move across the night, like the tides of time in a mortal life. He blinked and through the blur he caught slight movement at the edges of the firelight. Elrohir shifted slightly as if he sensed Elladan's distress. And of course he did.

Instead he clasped Aragorn's arm, wanting to feel anchored himself, to feel warm and living flesh and blood.

Elladan smiled wryly and nodded and when Aragorn had turned his back and rolled himself tightly in his cloak upon the ground, Elladan closed his eyes tightly for a moment for the hurt and loss that he knew was ahead of him, sometime.

0o0o0

It seemed but a moment ago that he had left Elladan's side when Aragorn awoke to a hand pressed lightly on his shoulder. Elrohir stood above him, dressed and ready for the journey that would take him and Elladan to Lothlorien. Aragorn pushed himself to sit up, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

It was very early, the thin morning light cold and the horses still half asleep. Roheryn was resting one hoof and his head was low, eyes half shut. Around Aragorn his companions slept, huddled grey shapes on the cold ground. He could hear Gimli's snores. Glorfindel and Elladan stood at the edge of the camp, talking in low voices.

'We take our leave of you now, Estel,' Elrohir said softly.

Aragorn's belly felt chilled with the cold morning, but he struggled awake and remembering their argument, clasped Elrohir's hand. 'You are leaving already?' he said.

Elrohir paused, looking down for a moment. His face softened.

'Ai, Estel,' he relented finally and sighed. His hand clasped Aragorn's and he gave a half-smile that seemed so rare these days that Aragorn felt his chest swell with love for his brother, and knew he was forgiven. As Elrohir had been the first to forgive him Arwen. Suddenly he wished he had his brothers' company for longer; the Quest ran ahead of him, and beyond that...he could not see. He wished that he might have their company on the Quest, that Elrond would agree to send them too...

Elrohir had walked over to his black horse, Barakhir, who bent his head and nosed his rider trustingly, chewed the silver bit in his mouth. Elrohir threw his saddle over the horse's back and reached below to the girth, and fastened the buckles, pulled down the stirrups. Glorfindel turned his head to look but Elrohir did not return his gaze. He glanced away towards the feverish Mirkwood Elf, and then to the still and silent body that had been Rhawion.

Aragorn grunted and pushed himself to his feet, feeling his joints crack slightly and click from a night on the hard ground. He stepped carefully around Gimli's sleeping form towards Elladan. Amron stirred slightly as he passed.

'I bid you good morning only to bid you farewell I see,' Aragorn said softly to Elladan, who must have noticed the note of disappointment, forlornness too for he smiled kindly and Aragorn was struck anew how like Arwen was to her brothers, for in all their lineaments one could see Luthien's heritage.

'We will return to Imladris in a couple of weeks, all being well,' Elladan said. 'Have we not always spent Yule together?' He laughed softly so he would not awaken their companions.

'I hope there will be more than a skinny rabbit and half empty flask of miruvor,' Aragorn replied, thrown back to a memory of the bleakest Yule he had ever spent, with Elrohir and Elladan camped out upon a cold mountain-side in the Hithaeglir huddled beneath an overhang with a meager fire, enough only to cook the rabbit though Aragorn was famished enough to have eaten it raw.

They shared a rueful smile and Elladan ruffled his hair irritatingly. Elrohir glanced up to watch them over the back of his black horse while he fastened his saddlebags and strapped Aícanaro to the saddle sheath. He did not smile.

Elrohir ducked under Barakhir's neck and slid his hand along the glossy black neck, gathering the reins. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung easily astride. Only then did he look down briefly at Aragorn. For a moment the steel-grey gaze softened into something else, something that was haunted, lost. Suddenly concerned, Aragorn reached out but at that moment, Barakhir shook his head and side-stepped impatiently and Aragorn let his hand fall back to his side. Then Elrohir was busy checking stirrups and girth and that Aícanaro was sheathed safely at his hip, and did not see Aragorn's gesture of concern.

'May Elbereth go with you both.' Glorfindel turned towards Elrohir and included him in his blessing. But Elrohir glared down at the Elf-lord, fury banked and barely held in check. Barakhir snorted and stamped impatiently and Glorfindel lay his hand upon the horse's neck and stilled him. 'Your anger is not with Legolas but yourself,' he said so softly that Aragorn could barely hear for it was meant only for Elrohir. 'And if you must blame someone, let it be me that I have let you descend into this.' Glorfindel's blue eyes were intense and clear when he looked up into Elrohir's cold steel eyes. Neither flinched nor looked away. 'Even so, do not let your anger blind you to danger, Elrohir. For I forgive you and love you whatever you do, wherever your bruised heart has taken you.'

Elrohir did not look away and his mouth was a hard, thin line. And he did not answer or beg Glorfindel's forgiveness either and Glorfindel sighed and stepped back then. He stood watching as Elrohir gathered up the reins and pulled Barakhir's head round and slowly headed towards the steep little rise that led out of the hollow.

Aragorn felt the tension simmering in the air but he had learned to keep his own counsel and wait until Elrohir's dark rage had burned away. Instead he held Baragur's stirrup and Elladan smiled at him over the top of the saddle and swung easily up. 'Be careful out here in the Wild, little brother,' he said, looking down at Aragorn and suddenly serious. 'I know,' he laughed. 'You are a Ranger and face the Wild every day, but let me say this. Be safe.' He leaned down and clasped Aragorn's shoulder.

'Come Elladan. We can delay no longer with this,' Elrohir interrupted, his voice tetchy and impatient.

Elladan looked over his shoulder at his brother and his face was concerned and tender. Then he leaned down towards Aragorn again. 'You know we would not leave Legolas if he were in real danger.' He glanced over towards the Woodelf and concern crossed his face. 'He is still feverish though. It has not broken even now, the poison will make him see things in the air. But he is very strong...Use the sere-vanda to keep him calm. Just little sips now so he gradually comes back to wakefulness. You will be back in Imladris within days, but do not tarry.' He smiled ruefully. 'I have faith in you, Aragorn. You are as good a healer as any in Imladris, save Ada.' Then he paused and leaned down to press something into Aragorn's hand. 'Take it just in case.' Aragorn looked down. It was a small flask. 'In here is the rest of the Cristôl.' Elladan held Aragorn's gaze carefully.

Aragorn's eyes widened slightly and he began to shake his head and give it back.

Elladan clasped his hand and closed his fingers over the small flask. 'I know. But listen. You may have no choice. Only if you are in urgent need or if his pain becomes unbearable. It will speed up the fever and help him to throw off the poison more quickly that way.'

Reluctantly, Aragorn took the flask and tucked it away in his tunic, telling himself he would not use it. Elladan nodded and smiled reassuringly. He looked down at Aragorn for a moment and when Elrohir called to him again, impatient and irritated, Elladan wheeled his black horse around and with a clatter of hooves against the stony trail, he cantered after his brother. The two black horses surged up the narrow trail that led up to the ridge above the camp and disappeared between the tall, thin trees.

Aragorn watched until they broke upon the ridge above and turned to look down into the valley. They raised their hands to him, the thin morning light catching upon the steel bits and stirrups, and then wheeled their black steeds and were gone. The thunder of hooves echoed for a moment and then that too faded.

Aragorn turned back to the camp and to his shame, felt a small sense of relief that Elrohir at least had gone. Glorfindel was striding up the steep slope along the narrow path to the ridge. His bow was slung over his shoulder and Aragorn knew he would be relieving Amron from his watch. He pushed aside the confused feelings and knelt beside Legolas. His skin was flushed still and sweat dampened the loose strands of hair around his face. His eyes were closed, but Aragorn could see them moving beneath his lids as if he dreamed wildly.

A robin sang in the woods over the river and was answered by another and the pale morning sunlight crept over the Mountains.

Slowly Amron walked down from the ridge, bow slung over his shoulder and his head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. He nodded at Aragorn and looked anxiously at Legolas' pale face. 'How is Legolas?'

'I do not know,' Aragorn said honestly. 'The fever still rages and Elladan says it will get worse before it breaks.'

Amron looked down at Aragorn doubtfully. 'What is it that is so important that they leave when Legolas is still so fevered?'

Aragorn squashed the irritation that Amron did not feel he was good enough a healer for Legolas and said mildly, 'They have an errand for my Lord Elrond.' He let the formality speak for him, and Amron lifted his gaze briefly but knew better than to ask. 'Already they have lingered too long. Winter has already set in over Caradhras.'

Amron merely grunted and turned away but Aragorn said softly, knowing he would hear, 'I will not fail him, Amron. I have seen this before. He will survive.'

Amron dropped his head and closed his eyes in apology. 'I know,' he said. 'But I have seen the agony and suffering too and it can break the strongest. You are an exceptional healer, Aragorn. I know this. But the Brethren fight it from here,' He pressed his hand over his heart. 'They fight for the soul, and it makes you strong, not weak. And I have become fond of our friend.'

Aragorn did not miss the slight glance towards Rhawion's still body and cursed himself inwardly. Of course Amron was going to feel concern; he had already lost one of his comrades and now looked to lose another. He knew they had drawn together, the Elvish warriors, for Glorfindel was apart from them and Gimli, no matter how doughty, still a Dwarf and he and the Brethren had been in the Angle for the most part.

'Amron...' he began but Amron shook his head and looked away.

0o0o0

The day passed slowly for them all. Aragorn kept watch over Legolas whilst Glorfindel stood guard upon the ridge, Amron cooked, and Gimli tended the fire. There was a peaceful domesticity and but for Legolas' cries and murmurs of distress, all would have seemed to be a mere hunting trip.

They swapped occasionally and Gimli took over from Aragorn to give him some rest, but he found his eyes always straying back to where Legolas lay. Now and again he twitched or tossed his head in distress. He had retched and brought up black bile frequently but Elladan had told him more than once that this is what they needed. Twice more Aragorn dosed him with sips of sere-vanda. He did not touch the flask of Cristôl and left it tucked away in his saddlebag.

The long shadows of the late afternoon drew over the small camp and they had all settled into their routines.

A birdcall sounded from above and instantly every head turned to stare upwards towards the ridge. Amron rose slowly to his feet and it came again.

Aragorn glanced at Amron and instantly they were kicking over the fire, raking the hot ashes so all trace disappeared, stopping the scatter the stones that surrounded the fire pit. Gimli was already on his feet when Glorfindel hurried down from the ridge above.

'A large band of Orcs is on the move,' he hissed and they quickly gathered round him. 'A small band is scouting and edging closer to us but a larger band is behind them. We need to go.' He looked at Aragorn first. 'We have some hours ahead of them and must take advantage of that. Aragorn, take Legolas on Roheryn. Head for Luin-Aglar.' Aragorn nodded once and Glorfindel turned to Amron. 'Take the narrow trail up top. Lay a false trail that will lead them west, away from here.' Amron turned to go but Glorfindel caught his arm and held his gaze. 'Do not take any risks. Do not get caught.'

Amron nodded, shouldering his bow and then he glanced across at Rhawion's body, covered now by Elrohir's blanket for he had taken his cloak.

'We will have to leave him.' Glorfindel reached out and grasped Amron's shoulder. 'I will hide him well and return for him.'

It was painful to see the anguish in Amron's eyes.

'I will see to Rhawion.' A deep voice like the river over gravel came from behind Aragorn and he did not turn. It was Gimli. 'I will find him a place to rest and be safe. They will not have him.'

Sorrow flickered over Amron's fair face for a moment and then he bowed slightly. It seemed that grief struck him too deeply then for he did not speak but briefly clasped Gimli's arm and then turned and ran lightly up the path to the top of the ridge. They saw his figure weave between the trees and bushes and then he was gone.

Aragorn turned and grasped Roheryn's saddle, lugged it over to where the horse stood, his strong head turned inquiringly towards Aragorn. He threw the saddle over Roheryn's wide back and reached below his belly for the girth, buckling it. The horse grunted as he pulled it tight.

'If we are not there at Luin-Aglar within two days,' said Glorfindel, 'leave a sign that you have been there. Then head for Imladris and warn Elrond what comes his way. We will do the same if you do not arrive.'

'Will you come over the hills?' Aragorn asked. 'Or along the river?' He held the bridle out and Roheryn dipped his head and took the bit in his mouth gently as he always did and Aragorn felt a rush of affection for the patient, kindly horse that never failed him, never let him fall, never took a false step.

'We will travel along the river, we can hide our tracks that way.' Glorfindel stooped and scattered the stones that made the fire-pit.

'Elladan?' he asked suddenly, realising his brothers were riding straight at the Orc band.

Glorfindel shook his head. 'They have already crossed the river. Elrohir will have known somehow Orcs were ahead. You know how he does. And Elladan has that dagger,' he said with a slight curl of distaste for he knew to whom it had belonged once. 'They head for the Gap of Rohan, not high Caradhras.' He cast a baleful look at the high mountain already thick with snow and raising its cruel head to look coldly over Eregion.

Quickly, Aragorn tied his pack onto the cantle of the saddle now and pulled the stirrups down. He glanced behind him towards Legolas to see that Glorfindel bent over the feverish Elf now and clasped his uninjured shoulder lightly.

There was a moment when Aragorn thought the clearing was flooded with a golden light, sweeter than sunlight, older, more pure. And then Glorfindel spoke, 'Legolas. Awake now.' His voice had great power, thrummed through the blood and Aragorn felt himself turn and his heart slowly flipped in his breast as if Arwen stood there. Legolas stirred and his eyes flickered open, a thin seam of deep green and then he turned away, groaning.

'Legolas.' Glorfindel's voice became deeper, more resonant and Aragorn felt a song thrum through him like harp strings, it called to his very being. Legolas turned back towards Glorfindel, lips parted and slowly opened his eyes as though he had been asleep for a long, long time and was now coming back to awareness. He fastened his gaze upon Glorfindel as though there was nothing else in the world but the Elf lord.

Glorfindel smiled. 'Well done, child,' he said. His hand was still on Legolas' shoulder and now he leaned closer and slid his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder to draw him forwards. 'We have to move. There are Orcs on our trail. Can you ride?'

'If you bid it, my lord.' His voice was so weak that Aragorn had to bend forwards to hear.

'Aragorn will take you on his horse, on to Luin Aglar, where we rested before.'

Legolas frowned and lifted his hand weakly to his mouth, touched his lips, ran his fingers over his nose and eyes as if unsure he was himself. He licked dry lips and Aragorn reached for his water skin, unstoppered it and held it gently to the Elf's lips. He jerked his head away at first.

'It is only water,' said Aragorn and then he looked up at Aragorn. His eyes were cloudy, but he knew Aragorn, there was recognition, and he drank.

Aragorn felt a warmth on his arm and looked down to see the Dwarf looking on with delight and astonishment. Gimli leaned on Glorfindel to peer down at Legolas. 'He is awake!'

Legolas' eyes moved to the Dwarf's strong, resolute face and to Aragorn's astonishment, he smiled weakly. 'Elvellon,' he said. Gimli nodded and patted Legolas' good shoulder kindly and the Elf's eyes slipped shut once more and he leaned his head back against the rolled up blanket that had served as a pillow.

Aragorn and Glorfindel shared an astonished glance and Glorfindel smiled once more and slipped his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder and lifted him to a sitting position. Legolas' eyes flickered open. Aragorn thought he looked dazed but that was no surprise and his lips were parted and his eyes widened, looking up at Glorfindel.

Glorfindel glanced down at Legolas and raised an eyebrow, sighing. 'We need to get you dressed,' he said in a business-like tone that brooked no nonsense. 'You must ride with Aragorn,' he repeated carefully. 'I am getting you dressed and up.'

Legolas gave a slight groan but nodded his understanding. Aragorn felt suddenly hopeful that perhaps this was the fever breaking rather than merely a moment of lucidity, for there was no protest. And he had thought there would be.

It was a painful process but Glorfindel was swift and merciless and Aragorn helped him. Glorfindel pulled Legolas up against him and Aragorn dragged his shirt over his head. He pursed his lips at the sight of the red scorch marks on the Elf's skin from the cupping but there was nothing to be done and he carried on regardless when Legolas groaned suddenly and slumped sideways so his head rested upon Glorfindel's shoulder. Pulling Legolas' moss-suede tunic over his head, Aragorn was as gentle as he could be given the haste but again Legolas cried out softly. Aragorn winced in sympathy.

Glorfindel took a small flask from the folds of his tunic and unscrewed the lid. 'Drink,' he commanded and Legolas lifted his long green eyes heavily to the Elf-lord's and Glorfindel cradled his gaze for a moment and smiled. 'Drink,' he said again, more gently and Legolas dipped his head to drink. After only a few sips, Glorfindel stopped him. 'That is enough for the moment.' He smiled and pushed a tendril of pale gold hair away from Legolas' face. 'I am giving this to Aragorn. He will give you more if you need it.' Glorfindel glanced up at Aragorn. 'Miruvor,' he said, screwing the lid back on the flask. 'Use it if you need him to revive. I know Elladan gave you sere-vanda to make him sleep. If he can sleep while you ride he may be heavier but easier to manage. And it will lessen the pain for him. But we need him to be aware of what passes here now so he will not be panicked when he awakens fully. And there may be times you need his eyes and ears.' He did not speak of the Orcs steadily moving North. 'How are your own supplies?'

'I have already checked,' Aragorn replied, mentally cataloguing the medical supplies he already had and being glad of the miruvor.

He gave a low whistle and Roheryn clopped slowly towards them and stood patiently while Aragorn strapped Legolas' bow and long knives onto the saddle. Aragorn put his foot in the stirrup and reached for the cantle of the saddle, hauled himself up and tried not to thump down on Roheryn's broad, comfortable back. The saddle was low at the front and he had easily sat Arwen there before. It felt odd to think he would have Legolas there but he did not think they had a choice.

'I will pass him up to you,' Glorfindel said, his hand rested upon Legolas' smooth head, slumped against Glorfindel, eyes half-closed and dreaming. 'I suppose you will hold him before you?'

Aragorn nodded. 'Yes. I can hold onto him then, talk to him as we ride. If I cross the river at the ford and then back again it may fool anyone that follows. I will leave you signs.'

Glorfindel hefted Legolas against himself and gently eased Legolas to his feet. 'Are you ready for him?' he asked. Then he leaned down and pulled Legolas towards him, lifted him easily and the Woodelf's head lolled back against Glorfindel's chest. For a moment, Glorfindel stood looking down at Legolas, and there was a tender concern on his face that would have had Legolas' heart jumping had he known. He stroked the damp hair back from the lovely, flushed face and then looked up at Aragorn.

Aragorn leaned down and slid his arm beneath the Elf's shoulders and heaved Legolas up. He was heavier than Aragorn expected for Glorfindel had lifted him easily as a child.

Glorfindel frowned. 'Careful Aragorn. He is not a sack of grain!'

Aragorn quashed his irritation. 'Perhaps you should ride Roheryn?' he said coolly.

Glorfindel paused for a moment. 'Perhaps I should.'

But he did not for at that moment, Legolas' eyes flickered open and he struggled weakly until Glorfindel put a hand on his thigh and said gently, 'Peace now, Legolas. You are safe and with Aragorn. He will take you back to Imladris where the poison that is in your veins and the darkness of the Nazgûl will be purged. You know you can trust Aragorn. He will keep you safe from the darkness.'

Legolas looked down at Glorfindel for a long moment and then let his hand fall to Glorfindel's and bowed his head slightly. The braid was coming undone and long strands lifted on the breeze for a moment and whisked back, tickling Aragorn's nose, smelled of summer, meadow grass... He twitched his head back suddenly as if he had been hit.

'Avoid the shores of the river,' Glorfindel was saying. 'Seek the hills and downs where there is shelter. There are caves there too.' He shook his head at himself and smiled. 'You know this areas as well as I. But it is not what I would wish for you.'

'Nor I. But I will ride swiftly. They will not catch us.'

Legolas made a strange noise, strangled almost, and had Aragorn not known better, he would have said it was fear. Glorfindel looked up again at the Woodelf and his face was full of compassion.

'Amron, Gimli and I will follow,' he said reassuringly. 'We will be more secret and your trail will lead them away from us I hope. Now, go swiftly and in haste.'

Aragorn hoisted Legolas more securely against himself and Glorfindel pushed his legs so he was astride Roheryn.

Legolas groaned quietly. And the Woodelf was too weak, or disinclined to protest and Aragorn hoisted him closer so that Legolas moaned quietly and Aragorn remembered the poison was still turgidly pushing through his veins. Gimli had not yet returned from his task of finding a safe hiding place for Rhawion, and Aragorn regretted not being able to bid Gimli farewell for he had come to like the Dwarf. Glorfindel gave Aragorn one last glance and patted Roheryn's neck. 'Cross the river and ride fast, then cross back. Perhaps go to the Angle if you think you need to. Make haste.'

'Farewell then Glorfindel. Imladris.'

He did not wait any longer and Roheryn was impatient now, sensing his own nervousness but Roheryn was always a strength, could gallop for hours, not as fast as some but with stamina and endurance, and he was surprisingly agile and crafty, able to pick a trail along stones so he did not leave more than the faintest trail, careful not to bend twigs or push through bushes where his long tail hairs could be caught. A ranger's horse.

The skies had cleared now and there was a frost silvering the grass, stiffening it, and a stinging cold wind once he reached the top of the ridge. Aragorn saw that Amron stood on the ridge on watch and the Elf turned and waved. The sunlight caught on the steel of his sword for a moment and Aragorn gazed at him, too far away to warn him how that could be seen. But as if somehow he knew the Man's concern, he pulled his cloak over it and it was hidden from view.

Roheryn weaved his way through the gorse bushes, brushed through the ferns and bracken, away from the camp and then when they had put some distance between themselves and the camp, Aragorn urged the horse into a canter.

0o0o

tbc

Next: Aragorn and Legolas alone in the Wild. Elrohir and Elladan in Lothlorien, with Haldir.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Beneath the Hithaeglir

 

The morning light was thin and cold, the grass stiff with frost. Slowly two black horses cantered along the river shore, their riders stared ahead and when one reined in and gazed towards the gloomy mountains, the other slowed to a standstill and followed his gaze. Snowmelt water swirled beside them, poured over the grey boulders and stones, white rimmed and frothed as the Bruinen plunged its ice-cold waters into the Greyflood. In the mid-distance the Hithaeglir lifted their snowy peaks into the weak blue sky.

 

Ahead of them, the last of the great holly trees that gave Eregion its name stood darkly against the sky. It always made Elladan sad to think of the glory that had once been, the loss.

 

Elrohir’s thoughts must have been running along the same track for he suddenly said, ‘It must have been beautiful once.’

 

Elladan shot him a look. Elrohir’s mood was cooler, more settled now that they were away from the camp. But his own mood was conversely growing in irritation. He was still shocked at the way Elrohir had spoken to Glorfindel. Only Erestor could muscle up the gall to pick at the raw wound that was Gondolin and it was Erestor who had been blamed for Elrohir’s bitter accusation. It was as much the slight to him that gave Elladan an uncharacteristic prickle of irritation at his brother’s rages, the way he spoiled things, his incandescent recklessness.

 

Elladan turned to look at his brother, watched the steel-grey eyes turn to his and then slip away in shame. ‘You will apologize?’ Elladan said, because he already felt the dimming of Elrohir’s furious energy, his Power; it had bled away into guilt. But Elladan would not relent so easily and did not look away.

 

Elrohir looked down at the pommel of his saddle, at Barakhir’s silky black mane, the reins lying lax on his neck. ‘I shamed myself,’ he admitted. ‘It was unforgivable.’

 

‘What were you thinking?’

 

‘I know not...I have not been myself.’ He reached out to clasp Elladan’s arm. ‘I will do penance for it.’

 

Elladan said nothing for a moment but his lips thinned and he felt his own irritation flare into anger. Penance! It was always like this with Elrohir; fury and rage followed by deep recrimination, deep guilt, penance beyond what was necessary. He was scared too for Elrohir, when he was deep in guilt, was even more reckless, even angrier, more cruel. It frightened Elladan.

 

‘I will lead the company that goes to purge the High Pass on our return,’ Elrohir said as if this were his penance. ‘Orcs gather there and I will see it cleared,’ he said.

 

Elladan tried to keep his temper but he felt it bunch like a fist, or distant thunder on a far horizon but gathering. He closed his mouth tightly to stop himself.

 

Elrohir turned anxiously to face Elladan, for he felt it too, ‘Do you not think it enough? Do you not think Glorfindel will be content with what I offer?’ he asked, sounding suddenly vulnerable.

 

‘You offer what you wish to give!’ he snapped back and saw Elrohir cut a wary look towards him. ‘You enjoy battle,’ Elladan said, his anger escaping him. ‘You would clamour to lead the company. If you were truly sorry you would ask for punishment. And give what was asked without rancour or complaint.’ He kicked Baraghur into a canter and only heard Barakhir follow a while later. He remained ahead of Elrohir for some miles and knew that his brother was restraining himself and his horse, that he followed warily. He felt Elrohir prod lightly at his own dark mood, testing the depth of his own irritation.

 

Finally he turned and let the wind pull at his hair and cloak, Baraghur tossed his head and pawed the ground in frustration at having to stop.

 

‘You are still angry.’ It was a statement rather than a question as Elrohir drew alongside. ‘I will do whatever you wish to make amends,’ he said but it was not humble. ‘I will do it for you, Elladan.’

 

‘You should do it for yourself!’

 

‘I do not care about myself.’

 

‘I care.’ Elladan bit his lip in anger, biting down on the words that he wanted to say, to pour out his scorn and venom...Do you think punishing yourself will bring her back? He stopped himself. Neither could bear that discussion, not even now after all the years. Instead he threw back, ‘You were too hard on Legolas.’

 

Elrohir stared at him in surprise. ‘It still rankles that I gave him Cristôl? I tell you, Elladan, I know I was right. He was submerged in the nightmares, believing Rhawion still in the Tower. Either his heart would have given out or he would have left and returned there had I not drugged him.’

 

‘You were too hard on him,’ Elladan persisted, remembering the violence with which he thought Elrohir had administered the drug. But he knew too that the same violent passion had fought for Legolas’ life and that Elrohir had poured his healing into the Mirkwood Elf’s veins, thrust back the venom that was heating his body to a frenetic break down, pounding his heart till it would burst. It was true that Legolas was alive because of Elrohir.

 

‘It was the best thing for him out here, given possible danger,’ Elrohir insisted. ‘I may have been harsh in my words, Elladan, and rough in subduing him but do you think I would deliberately harm him?’ he asked honestly.

 

Elladan’s eyes flicked up to meet his brother’s and then looked away. He could not hide the doubt he harboured, nor could he hide it from his own brother.

 

Elrohir recoiled. ‘Do you think I deliberately sought to hurt him?’ he asked, shocked. ‘I have cured him, poured my healing into him! What more could he want?’

 

‘You persecuted him.’ Elladan looked coldly at his brother now but he did not move Baraghur away.

 

‘No! I was angry. Tell me you were not angry that he killed that Orc?’ Elrohir demanded, irritable himself now, his long hair whipped by the wind. He turned Barakhir in a tight circle, his grey eyes full of indignation. Their knees jostled against each other.

 

‘Of course I was!’ Elladan retaliated. ‘But your dislike did not start with the Orc but became sharpened, focused by it.’ He glared at Elrohir challengingly. Barakhir shook his head and fretted and snapped at Baraghur. ‘Why do you hate him?’

 

Elrohir reached and grasped Elladan’s arm hard. ‘I do not hate him,’ he said but his teeth were clenched.

 

Elladan frowned and pulled his arm away irritably. ‘Even before we set off, you ignored him, treated him with contempt.’

 

Elrohir stared at him and Elladan could feel the roil of thunderous emotion, but it confused him for a moment, for it was complex, not only anger, but beneath it, something else…He held Baraghur still, trying to search his brother’s face, his emotions, for understanding.

 

Suddenly as if he barely knew he was saying it, Elrohir burst out with, ‘He was with Berensul! The night we returned I saw him in the Hall of Light and I… And then I saw him again but with Berensul in the Rose Garden.’

 

‘Berensul?’ Elladan turned in surprised annoyance tilted his head to see better. ‘Why should that bother you?’ he said crossly. ‘Erestor will have instructed Berensul and set him to spy upon Legolas. As he does to every stranger in our midst,’ Elladan added but his irritation felt forced now, even though he thought Elrohir unreasonable. ‘Who else did Legolas know? You have already heard the story of his arrival and why he was here. Berensul was the first friendly face he saw. Of course he would have sought him out, he is not to know what a philander Berensul is, nor his proclivities!’

 

Elrohir blinked slowly as if he realised something and his lips parted as if in surprise. He half closed his eyes and seemed for a moment, to be listening to himself.

 

Elladan felt his own annoyance drain away for he could not sustain it. He heard his voice lapse back into the patterns of reasonableness and calm. ‘Half the maids can talk of nothing else. They would lose their hearts and half of them their heads too if he so much as beckoned. He is a Prince after all, they are saying, even if it is only Mirkwood and he hardly acts like one. But so far Legolas has disappointed them all; it seems the son of Thranduil is not going to disgrace himself with any of them.’

 

Elladan sighed and finally, believing he had reasoned as much with himself as with Elrohir, he said, ‘Come brother, we have far to go and Legolas will have left for home himself by the time we return. You may never see him again.’

 

Elladan clucked his tongue to Baraghur and eased into a canter. It was a moment or two before he heard Barakhir draw alongside and he glanced across to his brother. Elrohir’s long hair twisted in the wind and his cloak was pulled to one side. He twitched it back over Barakhir’s rump and pulled it round himself as if he were cold but Elrohir was never cold. He burned.

 

 

0o0o

 

 

They let their horses graze and drink at a clear, cold stream for a while and stood gazing ahead, at the Mountains with their veils of mist and cloud hiding the high summits.

 

‘The Dwarves say that Balin has gone there, to reclaim the Lost Kingdom,’ Elladan mused and Elrohir followed his gaze across the Sirannon and he listened hard for the sound of the Stair Falls but there was nothing. Instead a still, black lake lay silent between them and the Gates of Moria, but they would not tread the paths of the dark Pit. ‘I fear his quest is futile. He is already lost...’ Elladan had that faraway look that haunted him when lost in foresight.

 

Not that anyone needed the gift to know that Balin was lost, thought Elrohir, he remembered their last journey into the dark.... There was something down there, in the Black Pit, some nameless terror. Shadow and flame...Unspeakable terror....They had all felt it. Aragorn was with them and they had crept silently through the abandoned realm of Khazad-dûm, barely breathing for the fear that pressed around them, a tangible thing, almost a creature of itself... Many things dwelt still in the deeps of the world, and they feared awakening the Presence that slept but lightly in the belly of the dark. Elrohir knew it was from long ago, far away, from lands that were perished and drowned, he knew It in his rich Noldor blood, the blood of Finwë.

 

Then came the drums in the deep, the drums from which they fled.... but they awoke in him that strange exhilaration, his lust for blood and it was only Aragorn’s fear that drew him onwards, and out into the light.

 

Now in the cold winter evening, he felt Elladan’s alertness, his watchfulness as they stood and gazed to the Doors of Moria. It did not escape him that Elladan glanced his direction and that his fingers stroked the hilt of his dagger, for that Feänorian blade surely must have trembled with fury to have sensed the Presence that stirred in the Black Pit for he felt Aícanaro stir.

 

The two horses nosed each other gently and then dropped their heads to the grass, snuffed at the ground.

 

‘How many did he take with him, I wonder?’ Elladan glanced at Elrohir, startling him from his thoughts. ‘Do you think any have survived?’

 

Elrohir did not speak but he did not take his eyes away from the grey cliffs and his face was still.

 

‘Perchance they yet live...’ Elladan mused. ‘They had survived the dragon after all.’

 

Elrohir glanced at his brother and a slight smile pulled his mouth. He needed Elladan to be strong, to be optimistic. It kept him from utter ruin.

 

‘Come,’ he said and pulled Barakhir’s head up and nudged him forwards. ‘We have many leagues to travel and I would find shelter before nightfall.’

 

‘Then let us keep to the Mountains’ edge and travel swiftly. We will come to the Gap within days. Or do we brave Caradhras?’

 

Elrohir said nothing but he felt a sensation like someone had lightly brushed their fingers down his spine.

 

‘Perhaps Caradhras has had enough blood from us to let us pass unhindered,’ Elladan was saying. ‘The Gap is no longer safe unless we can escape Saruman’s notice.’

 

Any way they went would be difficult. He turned his head and met Elladan’s grey eyes that were a mirror of his own. ‘Let us dare the Redhorn Gate,’ he said. They looked at each other, remembering that dreadful day they found their mother, but that was not the only time they had crossed that way.

 

So they let the two horses canter steadily over the miles of grasslands that rolled and surged beneath them like the sea and only stopped to rest because it was too dark to keep riding for there was no moon and clouds streaked across the sky, obscured the stars.

 

They lit no fire but each took a turn to watch and the horses stood by, heads low and resting one hoof. Elrohir stood and listened to the silence of the Wild, the small scratching of beasts in the undergrowth, in the heather and on the hard stony ground. He heard a rabbit scream as a stoat caught it unawares and the screaming went on and on and he was reminded of Legolas.

 

It had been years since anyone had challenged them. Glorfindel had said once that they wore their grief like a badge, like a banner it rode with them. The Elf lord had asked Elrohir if what they did would purge him of their self-hatred, their guilt. Elrohir had stared at him in stony silence, and then turned and slowly, emphatically, defiantly slit the stomach of a fatally wounded Orc, reached into to its hot body and pulled slowly the steaming entrails from the screaming Orc’s belly. Even Glorfindel had turned away and never asked again.

 

And when Aragorn was young and rode out with them the first time against Orcs, Erestor had remarked upon the boy’s wide-eyed stare and his trembling at the horror of their violent retribution, for he was barely blooded and they had not relented. Elrohir had strode between the dying and wounded Orcs and dispatched them slowly, inflicting torment where they could...for revenge, for punishment, to heal themselves... Afterwards Elladan had held Estel and Elrohir told him how they found their mother...the rags she was left in, the blood on her thighs, the way she screamed and tore at Elrohir, who had been her beloved son....

 

That was the last time they had been challenged.

 

Until Legolas.

 

Until the Mirkwood Elf who could not even stick an arrow in his own kin to save them from the torment of the Orcs, had challenged him.

 

Elrohir felt his hands shake. Like a wave, a surge of ...something flooded him, pounded in his veins and his chest was tight and full, like it had been when Elladan reminded him he would never see Legolas again. It must be fury with Legolas, he told himself, for sparing the Orc when his beloved mother was not spared one moment of agony, not one indignity, not one rape...His breath shuddered between his lips.

 

He had not wanted to help Elladan heal Legolas. He had wanted to hurt him. An impulse so strong it made him tremble, and to his horror, had stiffened him. His eyes had been drawn irresistibly to Legolas’ half naked body, and even now the memory of it emerged from his dark thoughts irresistibly; long, pale gold hair looped over his own arms, cool silk, smelling of meadow-grass in Summer, and the long eyelashes fluttered in pain and anguish against his flushed cheek. When the Elf had strained and struggled against him, against the poison and pain, he had felt a deeply erotic thrill as now and his sex had leaped and strained against his breeches. He had almost leaned down and kissed Legolas.... the painted spirals and swirls on his chest, his lean and muscled torso, his strong arms...beautiful, he thought. An image leapt unbidden into his thoughts, of Legolas, head thrown back, lips parted in panting gasps of pain, in ecstasy, in a cry of orgasm.

 

Elrohir half-closed his eyes and his lips parted, aware of the lust that uncoiled in his belly, throbbed in his own sex. When he had poured his crimson Power into Legolas’ veins, to fight the poisoned clouds in his blood, the Elf’s eyes snapped open and fastened on Elrohir’s, long green eyes, deepest green like the Sea. Elrohir had stared at the high cheekbones, strong, beautiful face, as he had when he had passed Legolas in the Hall of Light in Imladris with the sun gleaming in his long, pale hair and his eyes wide with recognition, astonishment, a naive innocence that was not quite innocence.

 

No, not innocence whatever Elladan believed. There was something about Legolas that was intensely aware, as if he wore his naivety like a cloak that could be flung off at any moment. He just did not know what he would find beneath. The edges of his nerves fluttered and there was a strange churning in his belly. Suddenly he wanted more than anything, to see Legolas again. And now though he stood miles from the Elf and in the empty wilderness, the darkest night, Elrohir found himself stirred beyond what was natural and he hated himself for it, hated Legolas for provoking it in him when he had for so long repressed all desire, sought its outlet in killing instead.

 

Aícanaro hissed in his sheath. Instantly Elrohir broke from his thoughts and came to stark awareness. The horses’ heads came up and their ears pricked forwards, both staring into the dark. Elrohir leaned down and touched Elladan on the shoulder.

 

Elladan immediately sat up, pushing his long hair back, then he reached for his Feänorian knife, slid the blade slightly from its sheath. A blue glow slipped from its steel edge.

 

‘They are far off as yet,’ he murmured. ‘Even so I would not wish to caught out here in the dark.’

 

Elrohir nodded and followed the direction of the horses’ heads. They were silent, knew better than to make a sound. ‘Cast a glamour,’ Elladan whispered, ‘so their eyes glance off us.’ Elrohir glanced at him questioningly. ‘There are but two of us,’ Elladan replied to his wordless question.

 

Elrohir nodded agreement. He spread his hands out and looked down at his fingertips, thought a spider-web of gossamer and twilight spinning about them, hiding them in shadows and dusk, swathing them in glinting light and shadow so they became a miasma...In the cloud of twilight he had created, the horses were like statues, grey boulders and Elladan’s ghostly thin figure rose slowly to his feet and there was a frost-white blade, Alcarinwë in his left hand and in his right, a dagger of blue-silver fire...

 

Out of the dark, grey shapes ran like drunken men and scuttled for these were Orcs of the Mountains, not the Uruks of Dol Guldur, and unused to the flat plains. But the light was still weak and thin, and the earth still slept. The Orcs lurched and hobbled and called strange unearthly screeches. Nightmares.

 

‘They are hunting,’ Elladan murmured so quietly that Elrohir barely heard him. They did not ask what. ‘Do we turn upon them or let them pass?’

 

Elrohir did not bother to answer. Both knew they could not let them pass.

 

‘How many?’

 

‘I see ten close by. There could be more. Scouts perhaps.’

 

Elrohir felt Aícanaro hiss and uncoil in his sheath, the black blade thirsted for blood and who was he to deny it? ‘Come then. Let us feed.’

 

He kept the glamour still about them but it seemed the Orcs could perceive something subtly different in the air for they stopped and stared and shifted around the space where the brothers stood. Narrow yellow eyes glittered in some unholy light, shuffled slightly to stand together in a rudimentary fighting formation but it merely served to make them easier to mow down, and they looked about themselves left and right uneasily. Elrohir smelled their fear. Through the glamour their fear tinged the air red. Slowly, silently like wraiths, the Sons of Thunder lifted their blades of white fire and darkness.

 

A chittering howl went through the Orc scouts. Swiftly Aícanaro slit their flesh and slashed their bloody veins. The blade sang its joyous slaughter as it severed their tendons and bones. Black blood spattered over their hands, faces and he almost laughed with glee at the mess, the black blood soaking into the dry earth, the spilled entrails hot and steaming in the cold air. He wreaked havoc, enjoyed their fear, drank it like a potent wine, was heady with exhilaration. Aícanaro sang with vicious joy. Barakhir pounded an Orc’s head with his hooves; beat it into the earth, a bloody pulp. Tattered flesh strung on ribs and bones.

 

It was quickly over for the Orcs could not see more than a glint of metal or the glitter of their silver-grey eyes. And then not an Orc was left breathing and Elrohir stooped and grasped the greasy black hair of one and lifted its head. With one strike, he cut the head from its neck and watched the tangle of purple veins spurt black blood over his hands, spatter his face, his lips like an orgasm. Slowly he licked his lip and tasted the strangely copper tang of blood, like his own, he thought. He jammed a sword into the ground blade first and lifted the head onto the hilt. There are none left alive, he thought pitilessly and that made him remember Legolas; how he had looked when Elrohir strode into the camp having found his Orc dead, with a green-fletched arrow through its throat. Legolas had not even risen to his feet, merely sat up, long legs stretched out and tangled with blankets. He had leaned back on his hands so his long, flaxen hair streamed down his back and his sleepy green eyes lifted to meet Elrohir’s. When he had defied him, Elrohir felt furious and exhilarated and wanted to hurt Legolas, to strike him hard across the mouth so there was a smear of blood on his lips, like there was on Elrohir’s now. He wiped it with the back of his hand, looked down at Aícanaro. The blade was bloodied, strings of gore strung viscously from the blade and he watched Aícanaro drink, the blood simply melting into the blade. A sacrifice. Aícanaro fed. He felt its satisfaction, and he did not wipe the blade before he sheathed it.

 

‘And the others?’ Elladan looked across the dark grasslands to where they knew the main Orc group were. Elrohir felt a strange dislocation, seeing the grey eyes, star-shot in the dark, knowing it was the mirror of his but flushed and excited. Warm. Not the coldness that he knew was on his own.

 

‘We cannot leave them.’

 

‘Well then...’

 

‘Well then...’

 

They waited, hidden in the miasma he had created, and this time they did not crash in together. This time, the miasma cloaked them separately and they struck in silence and moved quickly between the Orcs so they were confused and frightened and some of them ran. Elladan drew his bow and brought two down but three escaped and Elrohir found himself thinking that Legolas would not have missed. Elrohir swiftly killed the three who converged upon him and whistled for Barakhir and leaped upon his back to ride down the escaping Orcs. Aícanaro was spattered with black blood and festooned with strings of flesh and gore. It was a bloody slaughter in the dark until suddenly he heard shouting and looked back over his shoulder to see that Elladan was no longer astride Baraghur and the horse had been caught by the reins by two Orcs and was rearing up, dashing his hooves against the unclean hands that had caught him.

 

Turning Barakhir sharply, Elrohir galloped back to a small knot of Orcs who were struggling now to hold the horse. Elrohir raised his sword and charged through them, slashing and hacking and Baraghur broke free, lashing out with his back hooves amid howls, and plunging into the Orcs furiously with his teeth bared and biting hard.

 

Elrohir caught sight of Elladan’s white face, blood from a cut on his cheek. Elladan was on the ground amongst a gang of Orcs, whose blades hacked and fell about them. For a moment, Elladan’s sword, Alcarinwë, flashed white streaked with blood but the strokes were heavy and tired and Elrohir felt a moment of panic as he saw Elladan go down beneath the knot of Orcs.

 

Recklessly he plunged into the Orcs and slashed wildly, fear not for himself, made him careless.

 

‘Too many!’ Elladan shouted weakly, ‘Get out!’ He was half kneeling in the mud, Alcarinwë held above and struggling against the wildly, unpolished hacking blades above him.

 

‘Never!’ Elrohir shoved two Orcs back and slashed one’s throat, slicing through the belly of the other as he turned. They were so slow, ponderous, carrion, he thought almost dispassionately as he turned and brought Aícanaro round in a wide circle so the Orcs dropped back, one clutching at its chest and falling to its knees.

 

‘Know with whom you deal!’ Elrohir snarled at them. ‘We are the Sons of Thunder and you will die. I will stick your heads on your own pikes!’ He bared his teeth and threw himself onto their short stabbing blades, both hands now on Aícanaro and there was the unearthly sound of the sword hissing through the air, the air almost singing along its edge, to meet a dull thud of flesh. Behind him, Elladan had been able to struggle to his feet and now the Orcs fell with a familiar regularity that made Elrohir’s heart soar with fierce elation. He raised his voice in a battle cry and heard Elladan join him and together they charged the remaining Orcs, who scattered. Barakhir’s whinny of fury and the crunch of bone told Elrohir how one Orc at least met its death and he could hear Baraghur charging after another.

 

It was quick then, the slaughter, until he stood over the last Orc, the one across whose chest he had swiped Aícanaro. It tried to shuffle away from him, clutching its pumping wound and staring up at him with hatred in its narrow yellow eyes.

 

Elrohir smiled nastily. ‘You have maimed and tortured and killed my people. You have gnawed on the bones of children, raped women, killed for pleasure,’ he said, breathing hard. He leaned on Aícanaro, let the tip rest on the ground so it could feed on the blood and fear. ‘Now I will leave you as a warning for your kind that the Sons of Thunder will exact retribution.’

 

He looked about for something that would serve but could only find the short blunt blades used by Orcs. There were scrubby trees and bushes around them and he strode towards a young birch tree and reached up for a long thin limb. Behind him, he heard Elladan’s voice calming the horses and praising them for their help and courage. He could hear the Orc’s rasping breath and its squeals of pain like a stuck pig, and felt Aícanaro slide and almost stretch with languorous pleasure. He was pleased there was one Orc left alive that he could leave as a warning...

 

And then a treacherous memory of Legolas arose, how he had leaned back on his hands when Elrohir challenged him, merely sat up, long, flaxen hair streamed down his back and his green eyes lifted to meet Elrohir’s...‘This is not honourable, to torture your enemy. Are we not better than they?’

 

He paused, his hand on the slim branch of a silver birch. It was this act that had led to his unforgivable words to Glorfindel, who had only ever given him cause to love. He bowed his head slightly.

 

‘Do it then,’ the Orc was croaking out. ‘I would have fucked your brother and eaten your heart while he screamed.’

 

All guilt fled at that and Elrohir tore the branch from its trunk and stabbed it into the ground, his blood hot and spitting. Swiftly he drew his knife and with a few short cuts, had sharpened it into a point. He turned the Orc onto its stomach with his foot and seized its gnarled and taloned hands, tied them roughly behind its back, listening to its gurgling cries and curses. Then he lugged it upright. It wriggled uselessly and blood suddenly flooded hot and viscous from the wound in its chest and over Elrohir’s hands. The Orc was heavy, stank but Elrohir lifted his lips in a cold smile and breathed in its fear, its cold hate that matched his own.

 

‘They will have you,’ the Orc panted, its mouth stretched in a parody of his own thin, cruel smile. ‘They hunt you. You think you are unbeatable but the Masters have you.’

 

‘I think I will do to you what you thought to do to my brother,’ Elrohir hissed in its face. There was a moment of fear in its yellow eyes and then it spat disgustingly at him. Its phlegm stained his black tunic and he felt his dark lust and hate rear its head, curl up his spine so it filled him.

 

‘Elrohir?’ It was Elladan, standing behind him, his long hair fell around his shoulders and his face was concerned, anxious. ‘Kill it and let it be damned.’

 

Elrohir was standing with the Orc struggling against him, to breathe, to wriggle free and he was hard with blood-lust and anger, when into his mind came Legolas, struggling against him, writhing sensuously as Elrohir tried to force his mouth open to swallow the Cristôl. Elrohir breathed hard, eyes half closed in lust and lifted the Orc as if he would impale it like he wished to impale Legolas and it screamed, like Legolas had screamed with terror of his nightmares...like his mother had screamed when he lifted her from the filth and blood. Abruptly he threw the Orc from his, drew Aícanaro and slit its throat. Its yellow eyes were fixed upon him as the life slid from it and its eyes stopped moving and glazed in death.

 

‘Elrohir?’ Elladan put his hand upon his arm, concerned, confused. But Elrohir shook his head. He did not understand that chaos of emotions that churned around him now, and he did not wish to speak of it, could not for he did not know the words that could express the lust and hate and fear and guilt that all sharpened and focused onto the fulcrum that Legolas had become.

 

0o0o

 

Next chapter: Aragorn and Legolas.

Chapter end notes:  
Elrohir inspiration.

 

Image by EVentrue on Deviant Art. 

Previous


	18. Chapter 18

Especially for Anarithilien because she was missing Aragorn and wanted some Aragorn/ Legolas bonding. 

Special thanks to Spiced Wine for proof reading for me and for Silmarillion advice!

 

Thank you as always to those who comment and review- it is so encouraging and I am an unapologeticically needy writer. 

 

 

Chapter 18: Alone in the Wilds

 

At first it was easy, thought Aragorn, riding with Legolas held against him. Legolas was drugged asleep, his head lolled heavily against Aragorn’s chest and his eyes stayed closed. He cried out a little now and again as they jogged over rougher paths or Roheryn stumbled slightly. But Aragorn knew he could never fall from Roheryn’s broad, safe back, even when he urged Roheryn into an easy canter, knowing they had to make haste, had to have travelled enough distance before night fall. 

 

The gorge into which the Bruinen flowed was ahead of them and Aragorn thought Luin Aglar close enough that they would reach it within two days. For now all they had to do was make sure they were far enough away from the Orc band to be safe. But Roheryn had done this and more on many occasions, and Aragorn urged him onwards, clasping Legolas before him. They clattered over stones and rocks, and dust flew from their hoofs. They splashed over the river and galloped up the bank along the shoreline, leaving a clear trail, heavy hoof prints in the mud, and then up into the foothills of the mountains where it was rock, and their trail ended. Carefully, slowly, Aragorn steered the horse back down a narrow and steeply descending track to the river and they began to pick their way between the tall trees and willows along the shore. When they reached a little known ford, they crossed and found a narrow deer path where their own trail would quickly be lost amongst the smaller hoofs of the deer.

 

He listened carefully to Legolas’ slight gasping exhalation as they cantered and eased back into a walk when he thought the gasps became too distinct. He had one arm around Legolas’ lean waist to keep him from falling and thought the Elf would protest that too, but now and again he felt Legolas’ fingers creep up to his arm and hold on so he knew it was needed. Once he felt the Elf slipping sideways and the steady Roheryn immediately adjusted his gait to allow Aragorn to pull Legolas back upright. His long, pale hair lifted on the wind and his body was overly warm against Aragorn’s. It was long since Aragorn had held anyone like this and he found himself thinking often of Arwen, and talking to Roheryn, as he always did, but to Legolas too, telling him things he would not say had he thought Legolas awake. 

 

He stopped to let Roheryn rest and because Legolas had cried out more frequently in the last hour than before and Aragorn felt he should give him some more sere-vanda and perhaps miruvor if he awoke.

 

He drew Roheryn to a halt beside a boulder that he thought he could easily step onto and hold Legolas at the same time, and at first, this seemed to work. However as he slid off the horse and balanced on the boulder to ease Legolas down, his foot slipped and he lost hold of Legolas, and could only reach out uselessly as the Elf fell to the ground with a hard thump. With a cry, Aragorn threw out his hands to try and stop Legolas’ fall but he was too slow and the Elf gave a sharp gasp of pain and his green eyes flew open. He spoke rapidly in his own Silvan dialect first and it was a moment before Aragorn could understand. He leaped off the boulder and crouched beside Legolas, who closed his eyes again and moved his head weakly.

 

‘Legolas, I am sorry. I let you slip from my grasp. I am sorry, are you hurt?’ Aragorn slowly eased his hands along Legolas’ arms feeling for any swelling or fractures though he did not think it hard enough a fall for that. Roheryn snuffed at his hair in concern and then dropped his head to tear up the thin grass. The horse lifted its head to watch Aragorn, munching the grass and then tearing up more.

 

Aragorn half- lifted Legolas and propped him against the boulder, pulling his cloak about him for the air was cold and crackled with the promise of frost at least. He fumbled in his saddlebag and his cold fingers found the flask of sere-vanda. He pulled the stopper out and lifted it gently to Legolas’ lips. At first he resisted but Aragorn rested the Elf’s head against his shoulder so he could not easily pull away; it was a measure of how weak he was that it was easy to tip a few swallows of the amber cordial into his mouth. Quickly, Aragorn coaxed him to drink a little miruvor afterward. Green eyes fluttered open and he focused on Aragorn for a moment.

 

‘How do you feel?’ Aragorn asked anxiously.

 

Legolas tried to lift his hand to his eyes but it was too much of an effort and he let his hand drop back down to his side. ‘Not good,’ he murmured. Then he opened his eyes and seemed to notice his surroundings. ‘Where is Glorfindel?’

 

‘We have come on ahead,’ Aragorn reminded him. The Elf’s eyes fluttered open and he half turned to listen. For a moment he seemed to consider but then his head dropped onto his chest and he gave a low groan. 

 

‘Do you remember that you are riding with me and the others will follow?’ Aragorn did not mention his brothers. He let his own senses reach out, felt the heat of the body leaning against him, the heaviness of his head as it rested on his shoulder.

 

‘We will stop for a while. Let Roheryn rest,’ Aragorn said carefully.

 

Legolas did not speak but sat hunched over and head bowed miserably. Aragorn looked down at the Elf’s smooth head, his hair fell forward and covered his face but it was clear he was in great pain and barely conscious.

 

‘Perhaps we should stop for a few hours,’ he said, but Legolas did not raise his head or speak. Aragorn sighed and looked about. They had stopped near the river shore and scrubby trees and bushes hid them from view and he could hear the river nearby. Roheryn grazed peaceably. The horse raised his head and regarded Aragorn thoughtfully. ‘We can stay here for a few hours,’ he repeated hesitantly. ‘Roheryn could do with a rest.’

 

He gently steadied Legolas so he was sitting upright at least on his own and rose to his feet. He slackened Roheryn’s girth and slid the saddle from his back and took off his bridle so at least the horse could graze in comfort.

 

Legolas wobbled a little and then carefully lowered himself to the cold ground and laid his head on his arms. Aragorn threw the Elf’s cloak over him and huddled in his own for it was cold, the sky was grey above him.

 

Aragorn turned away, wondering if Mirkwood Elves were very different from those of Imladris with whom he had grown up for the most part. It seemed so, for when he glanced back. Legolas had raised his head and was staring at him with those strange, disconcerting green eyes that felt like they were slowly unravelling him, who he was, what he thought, what he felt. And then suddenly Legolas’ gaze darted away, quick as a lizard. He looked upwards and squinted against the sky, then down into the grass for a long while. Eventually, he lay his head back on his arms and his eyes slid into reverie.

 

Aragorn decided he could not fathom this strange Elf in green and brown who hailed from, Mirkwood, who had brought the news of Gollum’s escape. 

 

Aragorn was a little ashamed now of his first reaction to the news, but it had been a long, unpleasant search for Gollum and he could not help the bitterness of his escape. It seemed to him that Gollum had been too easily released to clamber amongst the trees and it was no wonder he had escaped. Worse, at the council, Aragorn thought Legolas barely touched by the importance of the news, his fair face inscrutable and masked, his stance tall and graceful, at ease amongst the great and the Wise. He had been aloof, completely silent for the whole council apart from his one message and, having given his news, he simply melted away into the gardens before Aragorn even had time to question him. 

 

He glanced across to where Legolas seemed to sleep at least, though he twitched now and again and his hands seemed to flutter as if he were firing those lethal arrows at some unseen enemy. It had been a surprise to more than just Aragorn that the Mirkwood Elf had stayed long enough to join the search for any remaining Nazgûl. But Legolas had proved himself on this journey, and Aragorn had felt a growing admiration for his prowess and a surprising respect for the way he had befriended Gimli, for whom Aragorn felt a genuine liking and warmth. He shook his head to himself, admitting that Erestor was right about Mirkwood; there was certainly more to them than met the eye, certainly more to them than their dubious reputation. 

 

It was late afternoon before he stirred Legolas. Legolas’ skin was even paler and though sweat glowed on his forehead, he was cold.

 

‘There is sere-vanda,’ Aragorn suggested looking anxiously into Legolas’ eyes. 

 

Legolas shook his head but he was frowning, eyes narrowed with pain. 

 

‘Are you sure? It will help...’

 

‘No.’ Legolas' voice was quiet, yet harsh. He licked his dry lips and managed to croak out: ‘Glorfindel said Orcs.’ He closed his eyes and leaned forwards, face creased in pain.

 

‘Yes. But we have left them far behind,’ Aragorn said reassuringly. 

 

Legolas shook his head weakly and tried to reach out to Aragorn. ‘You need me....’ he murmured. ‘Stay alert.’ 

 

Aragorn raised his head and looked about, wondering how far away the Orcs were. He could not see or hear anything, but he was no fool. Legolas would be far more likely to sense Orcs than he, even sick as he was.

 

‘Are you able to stand?’ Aragorn asked him, looking down at Legolas. ‘We have to get up on Roheryn. I think it might be best if I get you up first and then I will mount behind you. Can you manage to stand?’

 

‘I will try.’ 

 

Aragorn slid one arm beneath Legolas’ broad shoulders, feeling the hard muscles and lean chest. Legolas draped his own good arm over Aragorn’s shoulder and Aragorn hauled him to his feet but Aragorn heard him hiss with pain and his teeth were clenched. He swayed against Aragorn, and then leaned wearily against Roheryn. 

 

‘Just...let me...’ Legolas paused, seemed to gather himself, one arm across the horse’s withers, the other dropped loosely at his side. His head was bowed. He tried to lift his hand to his head, but even such a simple action seemed a great struggle for him. ‘I need a moment. I am sorry.’

 

‘Let me give you a leg up,’ Aragorn said feeling a rush of sympathy. So Legolas leaned against the sturdy, patient horse, and Aragorn boosted him upwards so he landed heavily, swayed in the saddle, clutching at Roheryn’s mane until Aragorn mounted and steadied him.

 

Aragorn paused for a moment to let the Elf adjust but his head was still bowed, the breeze lifting his long hair gently as if peeking beneath in concern. Aragorn frowned slightly. He was pushing Legolas he knew, and they had no conversation once they resumed their journey onwards. 

 

They made their way following the course of the river, close enough to drink if need be but did not walk on the soft, muddy banks, and slowly the flat grasslands gave way to scrubby trees and bushes, and the flat terrain rolled slowly into the foothills of the Mountains. They rode carefully, and Aragorn kept all his senses alert for signs of other travellers, and Orcs. Once he saw the thin spire of campfire far off but it was no Orc fire, and too far away to be a threat. He considered briefly whether to make his way towards it, in case it was Rangers, but he dared not risk leaving his route to Luin Aglar where they were to meet Glorfindel.

 

Roheryn picked his way carefully through the woods, and the land sank into a valley whose sides were steep and rocky, with thin trees covering the cold earth. Aragorn knew this land well and made his way towards a cave where he had made camp many times before. Rangers used it occasionally and he knew there would be provisions for their own were meagre now that he could not hunt or forage.

 

At last it became so dark that he thought they must have passed the cave, but suddenly Roheryn veered off to the left. The horse had found it if Aragorn had not. There were no tracks to show there was even a shelter here, and the cliff was swathed in curtains of ivy and shrubs.

 

He let Legolas slide to the ground first, but he heard the whuff of pain as the Elf landed heavily and slumped against the horse for a moment. His hair was streaked with sweat. Aragorn looked down in concern and watched as Legolas sank rather gracelessly to the grass. 

 

As was his custom, Roheryn snuffled in Legolas’ hair as if ascertaining the Elf’s condition, then the horse sighed heavily and nosed about in the thin, poor grass. Aragorn unbuckled the girth and slid the saddle from Roheryn’s wide back, pulling off the bridle, and Roheryn shook his head. Aragorn carefully pushed aside the curtain of ivy that screened the cave from sight and entered. For a moment he felt plunged into darkness, but slowly his eyes adjusted as he looked around. It was as he had last left it, dry and sheltered from wind and sight. 

 

He dropped the saddle and bags onto the floor, checking for signs of disturbance. Three small twigs were laid carefully over a flat stone almost by accident one might think, but it told him that Halbarad had been there recently, and he smiled and went back out of the cave.

 

Legolas had not moved when he returned, and did not look much better than he had before. His face was drawn and pinched, his eyes mere seams of green.

 

‘Legolas?’ Aragorn reached down and touched his hot forehead. Legolas winced and bit his lip. ‘Sip some water first and then we will move.’ Aragorn pulled the stopper from his water skin, held it to Legolas’ lips and tipped it up.

 

Legolas raised a trembling hand and held the water skin steady, sipped a little, then pulled away. He nodded that he had had enough, lifted his eyes to Aragorn. His pupils were dilated, his skin very flushed. Thin red veins showed beneath his skin and Aragorn winced; clearly the poison had not been purged. It had spread. He thought there was a slight mottling of the Elf's face, a yellowish tinge to his skin.

 

Alarmed, Aragorn dropped to his knees beside Legolas. ‘You need to rest,’ he said, furious with himself that he had not realised the heat he felt from the Elf’s body pressed against him as they rode was from the fever. Legolas fastened his gaze upon Aragorn, shook his head slightly and frowned. His long hand came up to his forehead and pressed it, then quickly dropped. 

 

‘Can you walk?’ He slid his arm beneath Legolas’ shoulder and helped him struggle to his feet. 

 

Legolas stifled a cry, and Aragorn saw how he bit his lip to keep from further crying out. His fingers dug into Aragorn’s arm and he swayed unsteadily. Walking was hard for the Elf, each step he took seemed endless and slow, and he winced every time he put on foot down on the cold ground. Roheryn swung his head round and watched them with patient brown eyes, then he plodded towards them and pushed his large, warm body next to Legolas, who stopped and smiled tightly. He slung one arm over the horse’s broad back and the other over Aragorn’s shoulder. Together, they slowly made their way into the cave.

 

Legolas said very quietly, ‘How far have we to go? If I can rest a few hours I can go on we need to, if it means we get there tonight...’

 

Aragorn did not reply at first and was puzzled, for they were at least another full day away from Luin Aglar. ‘We are more likely to run into a scouting or hunting party. We may even cross paths with Dunédain.’ 

 

‘I had not realised they came so far south,’ Legolas murmured. Aragorn frowned but said nothing for he thought Legolas merely confused and lowered him to the cave floor. He pulled a blanket over Legolas’ shoulders for he was shaking even though his skin felt hot and burning to his touch. ‘Why will you not have something that will ease the pain?’ he asked, leaning down to look into Legolas’ eyes. 

 

Legolas swayed slightly where he sat and Aragorn caught his shoulder suddenly to steady him. Legolas’ eyes snapped open and Aragorn dropped his arm immediately - the flash of intense danger in the strange green eyes that were suddenly alien and fey. But he blinked and instantly, the danger passed and he breathed.

 

‘Forgive me,’ Legolas said but his voice was slightly slurred and the strange, softer accent was more exaggerated, the vowels more elongated and the consonants softened more than usual as if he struggled to remember how to speak. ‘It hurts a little.’

 

Aragorn smiled wryly. 

 

‘A lot then.’ Legolas gave a tight smile back.

 

Aragorn paused and watched him for a moment. He made tiny movements, adjusting his position as if he could not get comfortable, and his mouth was thin and Aragorn realised it was normally wide and generous. 

 

‘I have some miruvor,’ Aragorn remembered with relief, and rummaged in his saddlebags for the small flask. As he did so, his fingers brushed against the carefully packed flask of Crystôl that Elladan had pressed into his hand as he left. He paused, feeling the glass smooth against his fingertips. 

 

He pushed it away, pulled out the flask of miruvor instead. ‘Here’ He opened the stopper and passed it to Legolas, who stared at it at first, then reached out, but his hands trembled so violently that Aragorn gently closed his fingers around Legolas’ and guided the bottle to his lips. At first Legolas cut him a wary glance with his sharp green eyes, but he did not fight Aragorn and let him help. Foolishly Aragorn felt he had won something then, like winning the trust of a wild animal and he smiled slightly as Legolas tipped his head back a little and let Aragorn hold the flask as he took three sips and then pushed Aragorn’s hand away gently. 

 

Legolas blinked up at Aragorn and his eyes were clear and the pupils although still dilated, seemed less starkly so. ‘The sort of medicine I like,’ Legolas said with a smile that was more genuine than any he had given so far.

 

‘Glorfindel will only take that kind of medicine,’ he smiled at his weak jest and Legolas smiled back. 

 

‘I am not as cold as I was,’ he said and looked cautiously around the cave with a little more interest than he had shown before. ‘What is this place?’

 

‘It is a cave used by the Dunédain. I have used it many times and my cousin, Halbarad has been here recently. He left signs.’

 

Legolas nodded. ‘I saw. We have our signs too in the Woods.’ He shivered and let his gaze drop to the cave’s dry earth floor. ‘I must sleep if I can,’ he said honestly but his eyes searched Aragorn’s face. ‘Will you manage to stay awake or do you wish for me to take the first watch?’

 

Aragorn almost laughed at the idea of Legolas taking any watch. He was not in the least convinced that Legolas would not plunge back into wild hallucinations and Aragorn himself awaken to a knife at his throat and accusations of being Sauron himself. ‘No. You sleep. I will watch.’

 

‘Can you bear to eat anything?’ he asked next, and reached for the carefully packed lembas, feeling the waxed paper smooth against his fingertips. ‘It may help and will make you stronger,’ he added, unfolding the packet and spreading it open. 

 

‘I cannot,’ Legolas said and his mouth was turned down in dislike. ‘My mouth is dry and the idea of food makes my stomach churn.’

 

‘Very well, there is water and I can find some berries or some roots,’ he offered, knowing he sounded over-eager and childlike but it was always his way. He wanted to help, to make things better; it was the healer in him. ‘I have to go and cover our tracks first. Will you be all right for a moment?’ he looked at Legolas.

 

Legolas smiled. ‘I know nothing of this poison, but it seems to be leaving me now. I feel stronger and I can hear more than the thundering of my own blood.’ He smiled and Aragorn nodded, though he thought that if anything Legolas seemed worse. 

 

It was dusk outside and he did not take long to find long branches with leaves still on them that he brushed lightly over the earth to hide their tracks. He checked too for signs that marked their passage, and made sure there were only clean breaks that did not show white wood or bent or broken twigs or leaves. When he was satisfied, he returned carefully to the cave. Roheryn was resting his back hoof, and swung his head to look when Aragorn entered. Legolas was asleep. A wisp of pale hair showed above the grey blanket. There was new hay in the corner, and Aragorn silently thanked Halbarad for stocking the cave well. There were blankets too, folded neatly on one side, and bedrolls. Dry kindling had been stacked too, but Aragorn dared not light a fire tonight. Orcs were stupid but they had a keen sense of smell. But the cave’s real treasure was a small spring at the back. Roheryn had already drunk, and Aragorn leaned over to fill his and Legolas’ water skins. 

 

He returned, banging the stopper back in his for it lacked the elegant design of Legolas’ where the stopper slid smoothly in and out and never seemed to leak. It was light and felt smaller too but took longer to fill, Aragorn noted, so it must hold more water. He looked at it curiously, then heard a slight noise and turned to see Legolas had sat up but was doubled over and his face hidden by his long hair.

 

‘Legolas?’ he dropped to his knees beside the Elf. ‘I wish you would have some sere-vanda. It will ease the pain and help you sleep through the rest of the fever.’ He pushed his hair back over his shoulder, and leaned down to look into the Elf’s face. It was flushed, overlaid by a sheen of sweat. He trembled, and Aragorn thought he was even deeper in a fever than he had been. ‘We are safe here,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You can rest.’ 

 

Anxiously he bit his lip as he looked at Legolas’ closed eyes, damp, fevered skin. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking a more comfortable place for the Elf, then patted Legolas on the shoulder and rose, reaching for the bedrolls and shaking them out. They were made of sturdy canvas, filled with straw but smelled a little musty. He did not think Legolas would much care. 

 

‘Come Legolas, lie here. At least you can rest.’

 

‘No....I... I cannot rest.’ Legolas’ teeth chattered and his whole body seemed suddenly to convulse. ‘We m..must go on.’

 

Aragorn rubbed his hands over his face. Surely Legolas was not serious? It must be the fever, he thought. He twisted the ring of Barahir upon his finger. ‘We cannot go on now, Legolas.’ Roheryn gave a deep sigh and Aragorn, struck by sudden inspiration, said, ‘It is dark and I dare not risk Roheryn. He may stumble and fall or go lame. Can we wait the night out here? I am tired as well.’ As he said it, he realised that was true and Legolas looked up, his eyes suddenly very bright in the dark.

 

‘Forgive me, Aragorn.’ He bowed his head and Aragorn felt suddenly guilty and humble at the same time. ‘I...have been...selfish.’ Legolas wrapped his arms about his knees and laid his head on them. His eyes closed. 

 

‘Not selfish,’ the Man said guiltily, not wishing to add to the Elf’s burden. ‘I am just not an Elf, I am afraid.’

 

There was a light snort of laughter. Aragorn stared. A smile flitted over Legolas mouth, and Aragorn felt a moment of ease. 

 

‘Do you think you can bear to eat a little lembas?’ He remembered then he had promised to get something else and rose to leave but a hand, hot with fever, reached out and caught him.

 

‘Please...stay. You do not need to go out again....If it makes you happy, I will eat the damned lembas.’ Green eyes, fever-bright, flicked up to him and Aragorn gave a short laugh.

 

‘It is not damned. In fact it is rather good.’

 

Legolas grimaced, and his mouth twisted in sudden pain. For a moment he stilled himself, eyes focused inwards and his whole body tensed. There was a shudder that seemed to tremble through his whole body, then pass. 

 

‘I have eaten lembas all of my life,’ Legolas said and Aragorn looked up in surprise for the convulsion seemed to have passed as quickly as it struck. ‘ Good is not a word I would ever use to describe it.’

 

Aragorn laughed then in astonishment. ‘I have never met an Elf who did not like lembas.’

 

‘Perhaps you have never met an Elf from Mirkwood.’ The smile was quick and blinding and Aragorn felt his jaw drop for a moment. ‘We have heard that in Lothlorien, it is made by the lady Galadriel and her maidens. Perhaps it the Lady Undomiel and her maidens in Imladris.’

 

Aragorn felt his stomach and heart churn at the sound of her name on another’s lips and smiled involuntarily. ‘Who makes it in Mirkwood?’ he asked to cover up the heat on his own face, and realised that he never heard of any lady’s name in connection with Thranduil, yet here was his son. 

 

‘Galion.’

 

Was there a hint of mischief gleaming in the Elf’s eyes, Aragorn wondered. 

 

‘And her maidens?’ he asked, thinking it a strange name for a queen.

 

‘Henchmen,’ Legolas said helpfully and Aragorn shot him a puzzled look; there was definitely a delighted gleam in his green eyes.

 

Aragorn kept his own face impassive and played along. He glanced up with all the innocence he could muster and said, ‘A strange way to describe a lady’s handmaidens,’ he joined in. ‘Are they as light an their feet as the Lady Arwen?’

 

‘Heavy on their feet and heavy in their hand,’ Legolas grinned weakly and immediately winced slightly. 

 

Aragorn grinned back and unwrapped the lembas that Glorfindel had given him. A light fragrance of fresh baked bread teased him, scented with something else, lemon and parley perhaps. He felt refreshed just from the smell and broke a wafer, handing one half to Legolas.

 

Legolas looked at it suspiciously, then reached for it. His fingers missed and he blinked, shook his head, then squeezed his eyes closed, let his hand fall away. 

 

‘Here,’ Aragorn moved closer to him and took his hand, folded his fingers over the wafer and guiding it to his mouth. 

 

‘I am worse than useless,’ Legolas mumbled but he took a small, tentative bite from the wafer and swallowed without chewing or tasting it. For a moment he held himself as if expecting something nasty, then lifted his head and looked at Aragorn in surprise.

 

‘It tastes like...like...’ He brought his hand to his mouth and took another bite, a bigger one and chewed carefully. ‘It reminds me of... summer evenings. No, like harvest...’

 

Aragorn smiled and carefully ate his half. Arwen had made this, he told himself; she had sieved the flour and kneaded the dough, shaped it into long loaves, stroked it with milk for a glaze.... he tried not to think of her hands on the long white loaf, running her hands along it...

 

‘So... the lady Galion...’ he said to distract himself from the uncomfortable and growing bulge in his breeches. Legolas laughed slightly and winced. 

 

‘Galion is my father’s...um...housekeeper I suppose. His cook, accountant, nursemaid and tutor to his children...’ He smiled.

 

‘Not like Erestor then, ‘Aragorn said, brushing the crumbs of lembas from his beard, his cloak.

 

‘Erestor? Eru, no!’ Legolas looked appalled. Aragorn smiled to himself and stole a look at the Elf, whose teeth were no longer chattering. He seemed a little refreshed by the water and lembas and Aragorn wondered if he could tempt him into taking a little sere-vanda, but decided that since Legolas seemed so recovered, he might leave it. It was true he would hear any approaching enemy better than Aragorn.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

It was bitterly cold that night, even in the cave. It was November, Aragorn reminded himself, and any warmth that lingered in Imladris had long left the Wild. 

 

He had persuaded Legolas to lie down on the bedroll, but his teeth had started chattering again and his skin felt cold and clammy. Aragorn had cast the blankets over him, but as soon as he lay down himself, he too felt cold. There seemed to be no alternative but to lie close to each other and benefit at from each other’s heat. Legolas had not batted an eyelid at Aragorn’s tentative suggestion and if anything, seemed surprised that the Man had considered it even worth mentioning. 

 

Aragorn lay close but not touching, familiar with enough different customs to neither ask nor presume. He thought of the last time he had lain close to an unfamiliar body, in Umbar. His companion had no idea how near his proximity to the Heir of Isildur, and would have turned him over to the Corsairs without a second thought. Aragorn wondered idly what paths Uglor now travelled, if he had taken to the Black Ships as he had boasted. It had been worth putting up with his arrogance and assumptions Aragorn mused, to pick up valuable information that had helped Mithrandir guess the movements of the pirates...He let his thoughts wander down such paths and memories until they took him where he was happiest: treading the paths of Lothlorien to where a maiden wound white flowers between her fingers and sang idly...

 

...He dreamed of her body, pressed close against him, warm and smelling of summer, and meadow grass, somehow sweet. Aragorn felt a comforting warmth, liquid pooling at the bottom of his belly...her long, black hair, like a cloud of silk, her soft warmth that he wanted to bury himself in....

 

Long hair sifted over his shoulder, and he lifted his hand tentatively to stroke it, wanting to feel that softness. He felt himself burgeon with need for Arwen.

 

‘There’s something sticking into my back,’ a weak voice snapped him out of his reverie like a slap. He looked at his hand where it was threaded with pale blond strands and pulled it away, hotly and cringingly aware of the hard, hot flesh that pressed against Legolas’ body.

 

He chewed his lip and moved. ‘Sorry. It’s my knee.’ He shifted so it could have been possible and ignored the muffled snort. ‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked as much to distract Legolas as himself.

 

‘I am not as dizzy and confused as I was, I think. It is better without the sere-vanda. It confuses me.’ A pause. ‘Have you moved your sword so it is more comfortable?’ he asked. Aragorn could hear the amusement in his voice, and felt a flush of embarrassment scald down his back, over his neck and cheeks.

 

‘I was thinking of Arwen,’ he admitted because not to was worse. 

 

There was a silence. Legolas half-turned so he now lay on his back. Aragorn saw his beautiful face, straight nose, high cheekbones, full-sculpted lips, and the delicate point of his ears. His strange green eyes looked sideways at Aragorn. 

 

‘She is very beautiful.’

 

‘She is.’ The relief and pain of speaking about her.

 

‘They say she is Luthien’s likeness.’

 

‘They do.’

 

Aragorn felt the stirring of the usual complex emotions: jealousy and possessiveness, mixed with an intense unworthiness. He stared up at the hard rock of the cave roof. He could hear the river beyond, sweeping its clear way through the night under the stars. But his thoughts dwelt upon the last time he had spoken of his love for the daughter of his foster father, the sister of his brothers. But he had never thought of her as a sister, the beloved Evenstar of her people....

 

‘She has your heart?’

 

The Elf spoke gently. There was compassion in his voice, so strangely accented with its elongated vowels and softened consonants. Aragorn blinked.

 

‘She does.’

 

‘Ah.’ He saw Legolas blink slowly and then he let his eyes close. ‘No wonder. She must have broken many hearts.’ 

 

Something in his voice, the kindness, made Aragorn’s heart squeeze, and he found himself wanting to confide everything in this strange Elf from Mirkwood. 

‘She has given me her heart too,’ he found himself saying, and Legolas only blinked slowly, once.

 

‘Then you must treasure it, for does she not have the Gift of Elros?’

 

‘I would that she did not take this path.’

 

‘But she does so for you.’

 

‘Yes. But I wish she did not.’

 

‘It is her Choice. And she has told you that she would rather love once and truly than love lightly and often?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Then you are beyond blessed. How many of her kin have died and found none. It seems she is also blessed.’

 

Aragorn lay staring up the roof and wondered. He thought of Elladan who had never found love, and Elrohir who could not love. And Elrond whose heart was broken. Beyond him was Eärendil who sailed the skies it was said, forever sundered from his love and kin, and Luthien and Beren lay somewhere beneath the waves… 

 

It seemed that Elros was the only one who had been happiest, and Aragorn felt peace creep into his heart. He thought there was a whispering song that must have been the spring at the back of the cave, or perhaps a breeze threading its way through the trees outside. He swore there was a green-gold light wavering in the dim cave and thought perhaps the sun had risen early, was shining through the new beech leaves...but it is November he thought sleepily, and night...His breathing deepened, and he drifted through beech trees along a meandering, burbling stream where cold clear water gurgled over granite and slate between the ferns...

 

 

0o0o

 

Morning crept upon Aragorn, whom would not have woken but for Roheryn snuffling at him. He threw his arm out and with the other, rubbed his beard. There was a strange noise near his ear... a strange light clacking, and his tunic felt damp. He had slept more peacefully than he had for years, but the sound drew him to full alertness. It was Legolas. His teeth were chattering again, his skin was cold and clammy, and the sweat from the Elf was the cause of damp on Aragorn’s own skin. It seemed the reprieve was simply the fever gathering itself again for a greater onslaught. Aragorn rolled out of the blanket, knelt above Legolas, pressing his hand against his throat. The Elf’s pulse slammed against Aragorn’s finger, a racing, pounding thump, and he saw in the dim cave light that the red veins stood out more starkly, like threads. He could not see if the skin was mottled, but he thought it was likely given the pulse.

 

Aragorn watched Legolas for a while, carefully noting the small signs of distress: his eyelids flickered and his breath came in short, soft gasps. Aragorn catalogued in his head each symptom, each possible reason and cure...but he had only a choice between sitting it out, dosing the Elf with more sere-vanda, or giving him a further dose of Crystôl. He did not want to do any of them. He knelt back on his heels, thought that Elrohir would simply plunge his thoughts, his Power into the Elf’s feä, fight the fire of poison with his own fire, wrestle for the Elf’s life, vanquish the poison’s violent spread with his own violent anger and passion...but Aragorn did not have that Power. He pulled his saddlebags towards him and rummaged inside for a moment. His fingers touched a small packet of folded waxed paper. Inside, he knew, were the small dried leaves of athelas.

 

He pulled out the folded packet and looked at it. He supposed he had nothing to lose. Athelas was not renowned for healing a fever, but at least it might bring some comfort, and relief from the hallucinations. He had nothing to heat water for he had not dared light a fire, so he simply opened the packet, slid the leaf between his palms and held them. He let his head bow and imagined how warm his hands were, that they were growing even warmer, as Elrohir had shown him. He let the heat pass from his hands into the Athelas, felt the dry, papery leaf fill and plump. The fragrance of Summer stole from between his hands. He leaned forwards and cupped his hands around Legolas’ nose and mouth, waiting for him to breathe in the fragrance. He felt the hot breath on his own skin and the cool as the Elf exhaled and inhaled.

 

And Legolas’ eyes snapped open. Utterly alien in that moment. Aragorn barely blinked before his hand was seized in a grip of steel. Next he knew he was thrown hard and landed face down on the cave floor. He grunted as the air was pushed out of his lungs by the unnervingly heavy body of the wood-Elf landing atop him, pinning him down. Small pebbles and grit tore at Aragorn’s cheek, and he felt the tendons of his arm wrenched in screaming pain as Legolas twisted his arm behind his back, leaning over him so Aragorn felt his hot, feverish breath on his own ear, his cheek. 

 

‘Spawn of Morgoth!’ the Elf hissed and Aragorn felt his tendons stretch, the bones almost dislocating. 

 

‘Legolas!’ he managed to gasp, and he wriggled a little to shift the weight on his back. It was difficult to breathe. ‘You know me. It is Aragorn.’ He cried out then because Legolas wrenched his arm further up his back. He felt a soft crunch, and knew the next move would truly dislocate his shoulder. He froze.

 

‘Where are they?’

 

Aragorn barely dared to breathe. He blinked, saw that the precious athelas was scattered nearby, lost in the dust and gravel. ‘Who?’ he gasped. He knew better than to struggle and lay as still as he could. 

 

‘Do not play me for a fool!’ Legolas hissed again, and he leaned hard over Aragorn so his face was close. Aragorn could see the fine pores of his skin, the long lashes and bruises around his eyes from the poison. ‘Where are your masters?’

 

Aragorn bit his lip for the pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth, tried to speak but the only sound that came was a slight cry of pain. Legolas reduced the pressure by a fraction, enough for him to whisper: ‘I have no master. What do you speak of?’

 

With a cry of anger mixed with his own pain, Legolas bore down on him again. A drop of sweat slid down his face and onto Aragorn’s own cheek. ‘If you speak only lies I will not let you speak. I will not waste my time on you, slave!’ There was a slide of steel whispering from a sheath, and Legolas’ white knife lay against Aragorn’s throat. He felt a thin line of blood trickle down his neck. Aragorn was suddenly very afraid.

 

‘Legolas,’ he managed to squeeze out. ‘I am Aragorn. We rode out from Imladris with Glorfindel, with Gimli and Amron.’

 

‘And then you left. You betrayed us. You left so you could warn the enemy.’ Legolas pressed the flat of his knife against the nerves in Aragorn’s neck. He felt his arm twitch involuntarily.

 

‘No! We rode to the Angle, to meet with my own folk, the Dunédain, to ask for news of the Nazgûl.’ Aragorn gasped. His heart thumped in his chest; he felt the sinews of his arm crack and strain.

 

‘To meet with your own folk, and the Nazgûl is what you mean!’

 

‘No. No. Legolas...Remember! You were injured in Phellanthir. You were poisoned. It was my brothers who healed you.’ Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut against the pain in his arm and shoulder. Small stars of light exploded before his eyes; the nerves popping. Soon his shoulder would dislocate. Part of his brain wondered if Legolas would stop then, seeing that he was useless. But the knife pressed against his throat again, and he felt his artery pulse against the blade.

 

‘Your brothers inflicted terror upon me,’ Legolas spat accusingly. ‘They disabled me with their medicines and potions! They tied me down so I could not escape.’ There was no question that there was murder in Legolas’ voice. Aragorn felt the Elf press down harder, his hot body strangely heavy, so strong. ‘You helped them.’ 

 

Aragorn remembered how he had held Legolas down, how Elrohir had shoved his hand over the Elf's mouth, forced the Crystôl into him, how they had tied his hands with leather reins, how he had fought and fought, and wept...He had wept, thought Aragorn guiltily, because he thought they were abandoning Rhawion. Suddenly he saw himself as Legolas must; a Man of dubious descent who had brought Gollum to the Wood. That one action had led to slaughter among the wood-Elves. Aragorn had reprimanded Legolas for his folk failing in their trust, and when Legolas had been poisoned and in agony, he had helped his brothers to throw him to the ground, tied him tightly, forcing him to leave Rhawion locked forever in the dark...And Legolas had wept...

 

Aragorn closed his eyes. He could understand Legolas’ mistrust, for he mistrusted and doubted himself. 

 

He wanted to say: I am sorry but there was a sob above him — from Legolas, he realised. The Elf’s hand was on his throat, thumb pressing onto his windpipe. It was hard to breathe. His pulse throbbed once beneath the strong fingers, stars exploded before him again, and he felt pressure on the nerves in his neck. He felt his eyelids flutter. The last thought he had was that he was sorry that Arwen would never know how he died....

 

 

o0o0o0

 

 

When he opened his eyes, Aragorn realised he was not dead but was uncomfortably trussed like a turkey. He lay on his side with his hands tied behind his back, knees bent and his ankles tied on a short leash to his hands. It made his back arch and strained his spine horribly. There was a sharp pain around his throat where Legolas must have pinched his carotid artery, and caused his blood pressure to drop. That is why I passed out, he realised. So he does not intend to kill me, he thought then and was ashamed of the relief he felt.

 

He blinked, saw that Legolas was sitting a little distance away from him, his knees drawn up to his chin. A wickedly sharp knife gleamed in his left hand, which he flipped between his fingers. His green eyes gleamed like the blade when he saw that Aragorn had awoken. He looked at the knife thoughtfully, head tilted so his long hair slid over one shoulder. His hands did not tremble now. The gaze he fixed upon Aragorn was intense, focused.

 

‘Now we talk properly,’ he said. 

 

Aragorn could not help but lick his lips nervously. He thought that until now he had never really appreciated the adage about the wood-Elves: More dangerous, less wise. 

 

He tried to shift, twisting his hands but found he could not move. A sharp stone dug into his hip but he could not move from it, must simply endure.

 

‘Now. You were telling me how you rode off to meet with your folk, and the Nazgûl. You can either tell me where your masters are or I can leave you here for them to find you.’ Legolas ran his finger along the straight edge of his white knife. ‘Of course I cannot imagine they will be best pleased at your failure.’ He lifted his strange green eyes to Aragorn, gave a thin smile that was utterly terrifying. Aragorn had been brought up amongst the wise and deep Elves of Imladris, not the wild folk of Mirkwood. ‘I have seen what they do to those who displease them.’

 

Aragorn closed his eyes, shook his head for a moment. He had no idea what to do. In all his long life, and the many situations he had found himself, he could not think of a single one that had been quite so dismal. 

 

‘I cannot tell you where my master is, for I have none.’ He hoped he sounded sincere but thought the rasp in his voice made him sound more like an Orc than a Man. ‘My allegiance though, is with Imladris and Glorfindel is my captain.’ He hoped the mention of Glorfindel’s name might trigger something in Legolas’ mind, and for a moment there was indeed a minute hesitation. ‘He has been my friend and mentor for all my life,’ he continued in a low voice, the way he would approach a nervous horse. He glanced towards Roheryn hopefully, wondering if the horse might be of some help, but it seemed the gelding had transferred his loyalty entirely to Legolas; all he did was swing his head round as was his habit, and peer at Aragorn questioningly, then turn back to pull at hay, munching noisily. 

 

‘You have fooled my lord Glorfindel then,’ Legolas said, but he blinked slowly as if trying to remember something. 

 

‘I do not believe anyone has ever fooled Glorfindel,’ Aragorn responded, and Legolas snorted.

 

‘Is he not from Gondolin? Did it fall on its own?’

 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in surprise. Legolas sniffed. ‘You think us unlettered, untutored and unwise. But we are not complete fools...’ He paused then and let his gaze slip as if he thought on his words and was puzzled. ‘My father...’ He blinked and shook his head a little.

 

‘Your father trusted me.’ Aragorn said. ‘He let me into his stronghold and took the creature Gollum from me at Gandalf’s behest.’

 

‘And it betrayed us!’ Suddenly Legolas leapt forwards and crashed to his knees beside Aragorn. ‘You brought Gollum to us! You must be deeper in their plots than I even realised!’ His eyes flashed and his teeth were bared, not in rage but terrible pain. Aragorn recognized his own guilt and loss in another’s eyes. Suddenly he understood the obsession with returning for Rhawion. 

 

At that moment, the Evenstar slipped out of his shirt and glinted. Legolas stopped, stared at it.

 

‘What is that?’ He let his long fingers drift over it, then cradled it gently in his hand for a moment, staring as if entranced. ‘This is Elvish, ancient, filled with power...’

 

‘It is a token from Arwen. She whom I love. Who loves me.’ Aragorn felt his voice crack and it was not from the bruising of his windpipe. ‘I told you…’

 

‘Undomiel. Elrond’s daughter.’ Legolas gave him a shrewd look. ‘You have bewitched her too.’

 

‘No...I love her…’

 

There was a long pause. Aragorn felt himself heat under Legolas’ piercing gaze that raked him, his face, pinned him. He who had endured Elrond’s disapproval countless times, Glorfindel’s patient scrutiny, suddenly felt as his bones had dissolved, his soul left exposed...He realised then how very protected he was from the otherness that was the Elves. 

 

Legolas leaned forward, stared into Aragorn’s eyes and he thought he heard the whisper of grass, an elusive scent of summer. And then something in him shifted...he heard the sound of rain on the earth, the snap of a banner in the wind, a trumpet’s clarion call that stirred his blood and made him proud. An unutterable lightness that danced through his whole being, made him want to laugh but instead there were tears streaming down his cheeks. He did not know why, but he had never felt so completely known...

 

When he opened his eyes, he found himself fixed in Legolas’ own gaze, saw deep green, flecked with gold like new leaves in a beech wood, or the still deep pools beneath the mosses and ferns of the forest. There was the distant sigh of the Sea....

 

And then it was gone. Aragorn felt bereft. He would have reached out to hold on longer if he could, but Legolas drew back, sat on his heels, and Aragorn could breathe.

 

They stared at each other for a moment, then Legolas raised himself to his feet smoothly, with such grace that Aragorn wondered if he was poisoned at all, but suddenly Legolas wobbled, put his hand out to catch himself, balanced against the wall. He looked down, closed his eyes for a moment, then took a breath and immediately winced.

 

‘How long does this poison remain in one’s veins?’ he asked not looking at Aragorn. ‘I thought it had gone, and suddenly it assails me once again.’ The Elf’s eyes were bright with fever, and his long hair stuck against his brow. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted in short, quick breaths. Aragorn gulped air into his lungs, hoping beyond all hope that Legolas had recovered himself, and knew Aragorn again.

 

‘It is fighting you,’ he said as gently as he possibly could, keeping his voice low and hoping Legolas would not hear it tremble. ‘An hour ago, it eased.’ He was unsure if it were an hour or a day now, for he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. ‘And now it is gathering itself...It is the poison that makes you think real what is not.’ Aragorn shuffled himself uncomfortably so that he could keep Legolas in his sights as the Elf moved slowly towards Roheryn. The horse whickered softly, and watched Legolas’ approach with interest. Legolas placed his hand upon the strong neck, and his head bowed. He swayed slightly on his feet.

 

‘Does she love you?’ Legolas asked again, looking down at the ground.

 

‘She says she does.’

 

‘If I killed you now I would spare my lord Elrond much heartache.’

 

Aragorn swallowed. ‘You would.’

 

‘But it would kill Arwen Undomiel by the look of it.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Then swear an oath to me and I will let you go.’ Legolas sank down on his knees beside Aragorn and stared at him earnestly.

 

‘What is the oath?’

 

‘I will not tell you until you have sworn to keep it.’ He sat back on his heels, hands spread out on his thighs and regarded Aragorn with a mixture of anxiety and hope. It was strange, thought Aragorn, how very young and vulnerable he looked at that moment. But Legolas still clasped the thin white knife loosely in his hands.

 

‘Then I cannot swear it.’

 

‘You would lose your life because you do not trust me?’ Legolas mouth twisted in inexplicable pain and disappointment. ‘I do not ask you to endanger your life or anyone’s but mine.’

 

Aragorn hesitated. He wanted to help, it was his nature. But he did not know Legolas, not really. And Legolas was asking him to help put Legolas himself in danger… but then it looked like Legolas was going to do that anyway and if Aragorn did not agree, he would be left here with no chance of helping Legolas avoid danger and no chance of saving his own life either. He sighed. ‘Do you promise?’

 

‘Yes. Now swear.’

 

Aragorn took a breath. ‘I swear to help you.’

 

The thin leather reins that bound Aragorn as Legolas had been bound himself seemed to sip away. Aragorn moved his arms slowly, feeling the blood stab back into his veins. He winced and scowled, rubbed his arms and moved his legs gingerly. Slowly he pushed himself up so he sat opposite Legolas. Legolas sat as he had when Aragorn awoke, knees drawn up, long flaxen hair pulled over one shoulder. HIs face was drawn, his eyes narrowed, not with anger but with pain. 

 

‘Legolas, listen to me. You need to rest and to eat. I will prepare some athelas. It will help to soothe you.’ He looked about for the torn leaves.

 

‘You will help me,’ Legolas said, ignoring him entirely, ‘to find Rhawion and release his soul from the Nazgûl’s grasp.’

 

 

0o0o0


	19. Promises to Keep

Author’s note: Apologies for how long this has taken. Reviews do keep me writing though so thank you to DT for a late and encouraging review as well as Freddie, Pilvi(I never mind the repeated comments- and yeah, I know- merciless!) Guest- thank you as always, gginsc, iiionly, obidawn- thank you, kimberley kim, Rasinet- where IS Glorfindel when you need him - a little snippet in this chapter! Melusine and Meleth , lisse, Fadesintothewest,, curiouswombat, meleth (from Faerie), thelostplaceofatlantis, Alpha Ori, Spiced Wine, Naledi, bloodupontherose, Aiwendiel for all the nice comments and encouragement across the archives. 

Special thanks go to Spiced Wine for her kind beta reading of this and valuable help, and to Chaotic binky/Glorfindel for medical advice and insight into what Elvish Science might be (more of that another time), to Melusine for reading it and making suggestions and of course as always, Anar for betaing this when she is so very very busy, and the plot bunnies.

Summary: Legolas has been poisoned. He is convinced that Rhawion’s soul is trapped in Phellanthir. Elladan and Elrohir have left for Lothlorien. They have encountered and killed many Orcs already.

Yet more Orcs are coming through Eregion - (Legolas overheard the previous band they encountered on the way to Phellanthir, talking about gathering at The High Pass). Glorfindel has sent Aragorn ahead with Legolas on horseback and they intend to meet up at Luin-Aglar. However Legolas has refused to take any more sere-vanda*. Now that Legolas is no longer taking the healing sere-vanda, in his delusional state, he has attacked Aragorn and forced him to swear that he will help Legolas release Rhawion’s soul.

*sere-vanda: A combination of chemicals and herbs with multiple healing properties. It can be a sedative. It also it used to regulate the heartbeat and temperature. It is also a conductor of sorts for more powerful drugs, such as the anti-venom, Crystôl.

Crystôl (means Dream-Cleaver) is a powerful anti-venom created by Elrond as a specific antidote to lhach-rhaw, which is the poison used on Legolas. It needs to be used in conjunction with sere-vanda, which regulates the heart at the same time as the Crystôl actually combats the venom.

Athelas: Tolkien is really vague about what it actually does but it certainly clears the mind and heals the spirit. It is particularly effective in the hands of Luthien’s line (she uses it to heal Beren in the early Lay of Leithian) and the Kings of Gondor of course.

nb: A waterail is a British native bird, a wader in the reeds and marshes. It has a very strange and eerie cry.

Chapter 18: Promises to Keep.

15th-17th November.

Aragorn could not sleep. He had claimed that both he and Roheryn needed rest to buy some time before Legolas insisted they leave and embark upon a pointless journey, in Aragorn’s opinion, back to Phellanthir, so that Legolas could see for himself that Rhawion’s soul was not trapped by the Nazgûl in the Tower. Of course even getting there depended on their evading the Orcs that were already on their trail, thought Aragorn bitterly, the ones that Glorfindel had hoped he and Legolas would avoid by sending them on ahead.

Aragorn dared not voice any opposition now to Legolas’ plan however; he thought the Mirkwood Elf would not hesitate to gut him like a fish if he thought Aragorn’s support wavering. Aragorn sighed as he tried to get comfortable, now both of them had sworn oaths,; Legolas’s oath to Rhawion that he would not leave him in the Tower and now the oath Legolas had wrung from Aragorn to help him. 

Aragorn shoved at the rolled up blanket he was using as a pillow, trying to make it more comfortable. Usually he could sleep anywhere, anytime but this restlessness was telling. 

Legolas stood at the mouth of the cave, looking out. From his uncomfortable bed, Aragorn watched the Elf for a moment, noticing the little twitches and ticks that gave away the effect of the poison. He had watched Legolas stumble earlier and every now and again Aragorn could see the Elf’s hands tremble. Aragorn remembered a Ranger he had known once, who had recovered astonishingly from the lhach-rhaw but for all their efforts could not hold a sword for the nerves in his hands had been destroyed, and he was plagued by delusions for the rest of his brief life. And it was the violence and frequency of Legolas’ delusions that alarmed Aragorn more and more. It showed that in fact he was losing the battle against the lhach-rhaw poison that flooded his veins and that the single dose of the powerful anti-venom, Crystôl, was not enough to win this battle on its own. 

Aragorn twisted the ring on his finger anxiously and chewed his lower lip. All the teachings of Elrond had been to caution Aragorn against using anything but the smallest dose of Crystôl, but Elrohir had saved Men with seeming recklessness. But as Amron had said, Elrohir battled for their souls, and however skilled a healer Aragorn was, he was no Elrohir. And he did not dare risk Thranduil’s youngest. Elladan too had cautioned him against it... and yet he had given the smooth flask to Aragorn.

He lay looking up at the roof of the cave. A droplet of water was slowly gathering, forming and hung precariously for a moment. Then it abruptly dropped and fell directly onto his nose. He jerked his head back and uttered a curse.

Legolas glanced back at Aragorn; his eyes were unusually bright and had a fevered elation. He gave Aragorn an amiable nod, unaware of his companion’s anxious thoughts, and then turned back to watch. 

The air was very cold and there was no moon that night, but the stars were hard and bright. It was unusually silent and that alone made Aragorn’s hair prickle. 

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably on his side and pulled his blanket over his shoulder. He had coaxed Legolas into drinking water, and Legolas had kept the flask of miruvor too that he sipped at without judgment, and now Aragorn worried that he would be half drunk and even more dangerous. He wondered how he could slip sere-vanda or athelas into the water. If he dared not risk a second dose of Crystôl, then he had to somehow get Legolas to take sere-vanda again to give the anti-venom at least a fighting chance.

But he dared not try, for even if right now Legolas knew that Aragorn was not the Spawn of Morgoth, in his present state he could switch at any moment and Aragorn could find himself at the wrong end of the long white knife once more. 

He shifted again. There was a stone beneath his hip. The blanket had shucked up and his feet were cold so he kicked the blanket over his feet and sighed irritably. He was tired and needed to sleep himself and he hoped he would not awaken to find himself trussed up again and accused of being a servant of Sauron. He sighed grumpily and rubbed his wrist where thin leather reins had bound him earlier, though not tightly. He sighed. He would never get to sleep, and closed his eyes....

 

.... And opened them it seemed a moment later, though he knew by the light that hours had passed. Legolas was speaking in a low whisper, hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. Urgent. 

‘Aragorn,’ he whispered, his mouth close to Aragorn’s ear. ‘Awake. Orcs.’

Aragorn was instantly awake, throwing his hand out to drag his sword towards him. ‘How near?’ he whispered.

‘Close.’ Legolas had already crossed the floor to stand with Roheryn, who had turned towards the Elf, ears pricked and head up listening to Legolas’ soft words. Legolas put his hand on the horse’s neck and whispered quietly to him. Roheryn cast Legolas a sideways look and dipped his head towards the Elf for a moment, gave a deep sigh and turned back to the hay in the rack above him.

Aragorn struggled to his feet, throwing aside the blanket that seemed to have wrapped itself around his feet. He quickly threw earth over the ashes of the fire and straightened to see Legolas reach back to brush his fingers over the arrow fletchings, his crossed knives. Quickly, Aragorn buckled on his sword and checked his own knives as he followed Legolas. It bothered him a little that Roheryn seemed so unconcerned and was tugging hay from the rack as if nothing could possibly be wrong. The horse had never failed to sense Orcs and warn him before...

‘Come. Follow me. They are close.’ Legolas pushed aside the curtain of ivy, its dense leaves and vines that covered the cave mouth made it impossible to find unless one knew it was there. 

Beyond, Aragorn could see the night sky filled with stars and the earth blanketed with snow. It was still a little early for snow, Aragorn thought and wondered if there was more to this sudden snow than simply nature. But outside the Valley, the Mountains were hard and Caradhras the Cruel had earned his name. Aragorn stood silently behind Legolas, both tense as the bow in the Elf’s hands. 

For a long while they stood, straining to hear the slightest sound but Aragorn could hear nothing. He raised himself onto his toes and peered over Legolas’ shoulder, straining his ears. But all he heard was the short breaths of the Elf, oddly heavy and fearful.

It was silent. The sky was heavy and filled with the promise of yet more snow and there was that crisp, cold smell in the air. But the snow disguised the land, muffled it in a white blanket so there were humps and mounds and the leaves were limned in glittering frost. But still he could hear nothing and there were no marks or tracks in the snow.

He glanced over his shoulder towards Roheryn and saw that the horse was still standing resting one hoof again, unconcerned, his ears soft and relaxed. Puzzled, Aragorn turned back to Legolas who was balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forwards and strung out with tension, listening intently, peering into the dark. 

Slowly, silently but for the quietest slide of steel, Aragorn drew his sword. He leaned forwards again slightly, peering over Legolas’ shoulder and searching the shadows for any sign of Orcs. 

Behind them, Roheryn steadily tugged hay from the rack and munched loudly.

Aragorn waited. 

There was no sound. Nothing. In the clear and utterly still night, any sound would carry despite the snow. And there was not a single track to break the pristine snow. Not even the scratch of birds’ feet....

There were no Orcs, he realised. Roheryn would have picked them up, for in spite of his slowness and weight, Roheryn was a Ranger’s horse and his smell and hearing were as acute as any Elf. And the horse was not in the least bothered. 

It was clear to Aragorn now that the danger only existed in Legolas’ poisoned mind. He considered for a moment and carefully he sheathed his sword. He clasped Legolas by the shoulder and leaned down, capturing Legolas’ gaze, making sure Legolas fixed on his face rather than the dark beyond the cave.

‘Can you see any tracks in the snow?’ he asked gently.

Legolas stared at him, eyes wide and fearful. Blinking slowly, he frowned and peered outside. He took a step forwards, leaning out into the silence; snow blanketed all sound, starlight reflected upon it although there was no moon. Slowly Legolas stepped further out so he stood in the snow. He let his hand fall to his side, bow still strung. 

Aragorn came to stand with him. ‘Look, there is nothing out here.’ 

Legolas was still, he leaned slightly forwards as if poised to take flight but he swayed suddenly as if he had lost balance and Aragorn gently cupped the Elf’s elbow to steady him. Legolas seemed completely unaware, and that too alarmed Aragorn.

‘I think...we must be sure....’ Legolas said quietly, hesitantly. He glanced at Aragorn as he spoke and Aragorn thought the pupils of his eyes seemed huge and for a moment he wondered if Mirkwood Elves could see so much better in the dark than anyone. He thought how very alien and strange was Legolas compared with the Elves whom he had known all his life. 

‘Let us just scout to the river...’ Legolas said, but his voice held a tremble of doubt.

‘Very well,’ Aragorn agreed slowly, cautiously, for he wanted Legolas to trust him. 

It was bitter cold outside the cave and really, he wanted to sleep. Instead he was off on a wild goose chase with a feverish Woodelf who was definitely more dangerous, he thought. Without waiting to give him more than a cursory glance, Legolas moved carefully from the shelter of the cave and Aragorn followed.

Snow lay over the whole world it seemed, and only the river cut a thin grey line, the only sound was the slow wash of water over cold grey stones. Thin trees poked through the snow and snow lay heavily on the branches, glittered in the weak starlight. 

Near the river there were a few tracks made by some rabbits but apart from that, nothing.

Out in the bitter cold air, Legolas seemed clearer-headed and had regained his grace and balance. He wore no cloak. Every now and again, he would stop to stroke his hand over some ash sapling or thin birch trunk. His light-shod feet made little impression in the snow, even compared with other Elves, Aragorn noted wryly. Aragorn himself trod as lightly as he could but even he could not help but leave tracks. He was grateful that Legolas did not comment. 

At last they stopped in the shelter of a brush of saplings that clung together on the riverbank, thin birches whose trunks were silver in the starlight and snow. Aragorn came to stand beside Legolas, who stood listening intently and perused the riverbank for a long while.

Somewhere amongst the reeds, a waterail screeched once, but there was no other sound beyond the water running over the cold stones. Nothing stirred, not even a light snowfall. Above them the jagged skyline of the Misty Mountains cut against a clear, cold sky crowded with stars, hard and bright. Aragorn’s breath curled like smoke in the absolute stillness. 

At last Legolas dropped his head a little and sighed. He stood for a moment, and then  
held up his hand to stop Aragorn before he spoke. ‘There are no Orcs. I see that. There are no signs and the trees have no trace of their passing, no slashing and burning, there is no smell of Orc...’ he said and his shoulders slumped. ‘I do not understand where they have gone.’

Aragorn shifted towards Legolas slightly. And then he said very gently, because it mattered to him that Legolas was so downcast, ‘I did not see any Orcs, nor did I hear them...’ He glanced at Legolas’ still face and then continued even more gently, ‘And Roheryn was quiet. He always knows when Orcs are near.’

Legolas turned away and looked down the cold, silent valley where nothing stirred. ‘You think I imagined them.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

Aragorn looked at the face of the Elf before him, and suddenly he thought it was really important to be very honest. He took a chance. ‘Yes.’ He watched Legolas intently, and when he saw the green eyes sharpen slightly, he quickly continued, ‘I see the poison still in your veins. It is strong. It affects the mind in different ways and one of its most common symptoms is hallucination, delusion...imagined fears...’ 

Legolas turned his face away for a moment, looked across the starlit river to the high mountains. Aragorn breathed in and then said slowly, quietly, ‘Such as an Orc band close by... or a friend trapped by Shadow....’ 

Legolas was very still but Aragorn saw that the Elf’s hand trembled slightly on his bow. Aragorn looked away. They stood together, listening to the quiet sounds of the river for it was very still. In the snow everything was different. Quieter, sleepier. They could hear the hushed splash of the waterail wading slowly through the reeds a little way off. A fox pattered by on the other side of the river, nose to the ground, unaware of the silent watchers. 

At last Legolas spoke. ‘I mistook you for a servant of Sauron,’ he said very quietly. Aragorn waited, almost holding his breath for he worried he may have said too much. ‘Forgive me.’ He turned to Aragorn then and said, ‘I see that your intentions are good and that you seek to help me. You are right about the Orcs.’ His gaze held Aragorn and as before, the Man felt the intensity of that gaze, like he was being dissolved, distilled so that only his essence remained and was judged. ‘My fears...are too real. This fever,’ he waved his hand as if he could dismiss it lightly, ‘affects me.’

Aragorn waited, hoping Legolas would continue and admit too that his conviction that Rhawion was somehow trapped was also a delusion, but he did not.

‘It is the poison that makes your fears seem real,’ Aragorn said cautiously. ‘It is deep in your blood...and it is reaching your brain now. Fever is the sign of the body fighting it off.’ Aragorn turned to look at Legolas. ‘I do not know why the fever seems to be slowing... I had hoped it was because you are recovering.’

‘Too slowly.’ Legolas frowned. 

‘Yes. Too slowly.’ 

A sudden blast of icy wind came down from the Mountains, and pulled at their hair. Aragorn shivered. ‘Perhaps when we go back, you will let me look at the wound, see how it is healing?’ he suggested, pulling his cloak about himself but Legolas seemed not to notice and remained gazing out across the river to the Mountains. ‘It must be time to cleanse it and put a new dressing on,’ Aragorn said. He cocked his head to look at the sleeve of Legolas’ tunic, but the bandage had held and there were no spots of blood showing through. ‘It must still be sore and the skin inflamed from the poison.’

Legolas blinked. Then he touched his own arm lightly. ‘It hurts more where the glass cups burned,’ he said wryly. ‘I barely know where the wound is.’

‘Let me look at it when we return,’ Aragorn said again, more insistently. ‘I am sure I can soothe the burns if you will let me.’ This time Legolas nodded and they turned back to the cave.

A thin line of daylight was cracking open the sky above the Mountains and the light shifted subtly. As before, Legolas made barely an imprint upon the snow and Aragon followed his own deep tracks back to the cave. The delusions were clearly not ceasing, he thought glumly. If anything it seemed they were more intense and it would not be long before Legolas demanded Aragorn keep his promise and accompany Legolas back to Phellanthir. He saw how Legolas stumbled as he pushed aside the ivy curtain and disappeared into the cave.

Aragorn followed, unbuckling his sword and leant it against the wall of the cave. He rolled his shoulders and shook out his blanket. Then he crouched on the ground and swept up what he could of the athelas leaves that Legolas had knocked from his hand earlier that night in his delusion. There were a few whole leaves and he carefully brushed the dust and dirt away from them with his fingertips. He was aware of Legolas watching him but he simply busied himself about his tasks, gathering kindling and striking his flint. He held the small spark to the kindling and waited patiently for it to catch. Much in the way he was waiting for Legolas, he thought wryly.

He rose to his feet, hearing his knees creak as he did so and grimaced. There were a few utensils stacked in the cave, and he selected a small metal pot and went to the back of the cave where the spring bubbled. He filled it with water and crumbled one of the athelas leaves into the water. He felt the bristle of suspicion from Legolas and mentally braced himself.

‘This is athelas,’ he said soothingly. ‘Kingsfoil. It will not make you sleep. Instead it will clear your mind and will help with your wound which needs to be cleaned or it will become septic.’

Although Legolas did not speak, Aragorn sensed his acquiescence in the relaxing of his stance, but he did not come to sit with Aragorn. The Man placed the metal pan over the fire and as the water warmed, the aromatic fragrance of athelas eased into the air. He fumbled in his satchel, and pulled out a roll of linen, and then a wad of wool to swab the wound. Then he sat back, looking up at Legolas and waited for the Elf to approach.

At first Legolas stood uncertainly at the edge of the fire’s warmth. Slowly then, he edged towards the light and warmth and when Aragorn slowly smiled, Legolas neither flinched nor stepped away.

‘You will have to take off that tunic,’ Aragorn said. ‘And your shirt. I cannot clean a wound through all that suede and linen.’

Legolas flicked a sharp green gaze down at the Man and then away. Slowly he began unbuckling his belt and rolled it up, put it carefully on the floor. He loosened the ties of his tunic and shrugged out of it. He stood in his thin linen shirt and Aragorn lifted the Elf’s arm and pushed up the sleeve first; he could see the linen bandage was spotted with blood and faint yellowish trails. 

‘Keep your shirt on until the water is properly heated,’ he said, wanting the athelas to not only help cleanse the wound but to clear Legolas’ head as well. ‘We may as well leave that bandage on until then, it is not leaking.’ 

Legolas nodded but he took a step back from Aragorn as if wary still.

‘You could do with eating something while we wait,’ Aragorn said, thinking it was like trying to coax a wild animal to come close. He pulled out a wafer of lembas from his satchel and said with weak humour, ‘You will recall that this lembas is not made by Erestor’s henchmen, but Ceredir, Elrond’s chief cook.’

At the mention of the cook’s name, something seemed to shift in Legolas for he looked down at Aragorn for a moment. His face was puzzled, and he frowned as if trying to remember something. Then quite suddenly, he sank to his knees beside Aragorn and took the proffered wafer though he stared at it suspiciously. 

‘You liked it before,’ Aragorn said encouragingly as he would to a child. 

At that, Legolas took a bite and then stared at it as he ate it. He took another bite, a bigger one and then another until he had devoured it as if he were starving. Aragorn laughed. ‘You have only eaten one wafer of lembas for days I think. No wonder you are hungry!’

‘I had forgotten,’ Legolas said wonderingly. ‘How can I have forgotten that the lembas of Imladris tastes so good?’ 

Suddenly everything seemed so normal that Aragorn felt a sense of dislocation. Wisps of steam crept over them and he was aware of the fragrance of athelas. It reminded him of long Summer evenings in Imladris when the roses bloomed and Arwen’s long skirt brushed against the lavender as she passed. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the touch of her hand upon his, her eyes lifting to his as if she had been waiting for him all of her long life...

He smiled at the memory that drifted across his thought and eased his mind like the stroke of a cool hand on his cheek....

Until a voice broke quietly upon him. ‘You dream of your Arwen.’ It was Legolas.

Aragorn blinked and nodded. The pain in his heart was piercing and he could not meet Legolas’ eyes. Then he felt the gentlest touch upon his cheek. 

‘Why do you weep if you have the love of your heart? She will take Luthien’s path with gladness I think and all your children down the long line of ages will be blessed.’

Aragorn looked up. ‘How can I ask this of her? How can I ask that she gives up...all her kin, her immortality?’

Legolas peered at him with his strange green eyes and slowly tilted his head to one side.‘You have not asked it of her I think, but did you not say it is granted nonetheless?’ He reached out and touched the Evenstar lightly at Aragorn’s throat. ‘I do not think I dreamed it,’ he added, but uncertainly now.

‘No. No, you did not. I told you she had given it to me,’ Aragorn said quickly. 

Legolas smiled then, opened his green eyes upon Aragorn and the Man was caught for a moment in that clear green gaze. For a moment he thought he walked beneath the beech trees unfurling their new leaves in the Spring, or beneath the great mallorns of Lothlorien where he had been happiest. 

‘We must be sure that you are returned to her safe and well then,’ Legolas said vaguely and Aragorn wondered what he meant, but he had not time to ask for Legolas reached out for the cup then and dipped it into the pan and filled it with the water infused with athelas. ‘You say I should drink this?’ he asked. He sipped it cautiously and then closed his eyes, holding the cup close and breathing in. He held himself still for a long time and Aragorn saw with concern that a tear leaked from his closed eyes and slid down his cheek. Then the Elf blinked rapidly and cast his eyes down so Aragorn looked away and busied himself about some other task. 

A moment later Legolas spoke quietly, ‘You are indeed a healer. This has eased me as you said.’ He drank the rest of the tin cup and held it out to Aragorn.

‘Does this mean you no longer believe I am the Spawn of Morgoth?’ Aragorn asked with a wry smile as he dipped the tin cup into the brew. ‘I hope now that you trust me.’

To his chagrin, Legolas looked uncertain. His fingers went to the thin chain about his neck where hung a small mithril oak leaf. He clasped his hand around it for a moment as if in prayer. Then he said earnestly, ‘I do trust you. If you tell me it will not make me sleep, I will believe you. You have sworn to help me reach Rhawion.’ 

‘Of course,’ Aragorn said and he blew on the scalding liquid, then sipped it lightly.  
Aragorn swallowed. ‘But remember you are having a lucid moment but may succumb again to delusion.’ 

Sharp eyes struck Aragorn with a sudden intensity that hit him like a blow. ‘You think I imagine Rhawion’s torment,’ he said in a quietly threatening voice and the kindness he had shown Aragorn only a moment ago was gone. ‘I know he is there still! Like I knew Naurion still lived and I will keep my promise. You swore an oath to help me,’ he said aggressively. ‘Perhaps you regret that?’

Aragorn frowned and wondered briefly who Naurion was. He did not remind Legolas that the oath had been wrung from him at knife point. Instead he bowed slightly. ‘I have sworn to help you,’ he agreed. ‘And I will...’ He considered carefully and then he said very deliberately, ‘I would help you get well so you can be strong enough to face whatever danger besets us.’

Legolas looked at him with sudden elation. ‘Yes. That is what I need. To be strong so I can fight the Nazgûl.’

Aragorn watched him closely. ‘I have something that will help fight the poison for that is our enemy right now,’ he said slowly, hesitantly. ‘Athelas has many healing properties as I told you before. It will help to revive you in this instance and can help cleanse your blood very slowly. But sere-vanda will regulate your body...’ 

‘I will not take anything that dulls my senses,’ Legolas interrupted, his voice loud and his hands waved as if something unseen fluttered at his face. ‘And when you had me drugged I could not escape my nightmares.’ Legolas rubbed his hands over his face and frowned for a moment as if struggling to remember something. ‘There was something else given me in that time...’ He shook his head and twisted a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. ‘Elrohir forced it upon me.’

‘That was Crystôl.’ Aragorn said uncomfortably, remembering the struggle, the violence with which Elrohir had seemed to force it upon Legolas, the Elf’s tears as he sank into unconsciousness. ‘It is a powerful anti-venom. It fights the poison.’ He hesitated then and then looked up at Legolas. ‘Elrond would give only a tiny amount in the first place and prohibits giving a second dose though. If he were here he would not even consider it. It can slow the heartbeat to dangerous levels.’

‘It was no small amount that Elrohir forced upon me! What would he say?’ Legolas demanded. He leaned forwards suddenly. Too close, thought Aragorn and fought the impulse to lean back. He knew though that Elrohir would not hesitate to use it a second time -but he could not do what Elrohir did!

‘Does he not say that he can force a poison to turn on itself.’ Legolas held his gaze with feverish intensity and Aragorn felt again the difference in Imladris and Mirkwood. More Dangerous, Less wise indeed!

‘In the Wood the healers say this can be done. Tell me that is not what Elrohir would do!’

‘I have never tried what Elrohir has done, I lack the skill,’ Aragorn said, anxiety surged through him at the very thought. Elrond said that a second dose of Crystôl was fatal. But he had seen Elrohir give it and succeed. ‘I have no way of knowing if you can take this!’

‘Perhaps you do not dare? Perhaps you seek to trick me and you will not do this!’ Legolas shifted slightly closer and his pupils were dilated and wide. Their knees touched now and everything Aragorn had ever heard of Thranduil’s folk came back to him in that moment and he remembered how swiftly Legolas had overpowered him before. His fingers fell automatically to the hilt of his knife.

‘You have some of this Crystôl here.’ It was less a question than accusation as if Aragorn had been keeping it back, denying Legolas.

Aragorn paused. Then he said hesitantly, ‘I do - but I told you, Elrohir gave you more than I would deem wise. You are already febrile and hyperventilating. Anything else might drive your body into an even more severe reaction.’ He shook his head. ‘What I am saying, Legolas, is that this may kill you if the poison does not. Your heart may stop.’

‘That is a risk I am willing to take if it means I can release Rhawion.’ Legolas was on his knees now and his eyes were wide and fixed on Aragorn. 

‘No. I cannot. To give it to you might mean your death.’ Aragorn found himself scrambling backwards away from the Mirkwood Elf, pulling his satchel with him and away from Legolas.

Legolas went very still. His long green eyes were ice but Aragorn thought they could ignite too at any moment. ‘That is mine to decide. Not yours. I will not be thwarted in this.’ He rose smoothly to his feet and only now did Aragorn realise that he still wore a knife in his belt and Aragorn could not possibly defend himself. 

‘I cannot,’ Aragorn spread his hands out appeasingly, hoping that Legolas would see the gesture as it was meant. ‘Surely you know that as a healer I will not give you something that could kill you! I have sworn an oath!’

‘You have indeed. And so have I. I have sworn to release Rhawion, and you have sworn to help me.’ He reached over to Aragorn’s pack and pulled it from him. The straps slid through Aragorn’s nerveless fingers as if he had no will of his own. Legolas threw open the flap. ‘Shall I find it for myself?’

Roheryn had swung his head round at their raised voices and now he gave a low whicker. Aragorn half closed his eyes. ‘I beg you, Legolas. Wait a while and see. The poison may already be receding. If anything will help you, it will be sere-vanda...’ 

‘No!’ Legolas almost shouted. ‘I have told you- it traps me in there and I can do nothing. I cannot move! I will have none of that. Crystôl is what will heal me!’ Legolas’ gesticulations were wild and uncontrolled and Aragorn had sudden visions of himself left tied up in the cave whilst Legolas went off to find Rhawion. ‘How can I go to Phellanthir if I do not trust myself?’ Legolas continued and his voice rose in distress. ‘Now. Give me the drug.’

Aragorn swallowed nervously and shook his head. ‘Do not do this, Legolas. You are not yourself.’

Legolas stepped closer and leaned in over Aragorn. Holding the Man’s gaze, deliberately he reached down and took the satchel from Aragorn. ‘No. Indeed I am not.’ His voice was low and dangerous.

‘Wait!’ Aragorn snagged the satchel strap and held onto it. ‘Wait, there are others drugs in there. I will find it.’

Legolas paused, his long green eyes sharp and hard, like ice. His mouth was thin, his face cold, like stone and Aragorn forced himself to still under the sharp gaze. 

Slowly Aragorn reached into his satchel. ‘No. I have sworn to help you,’ he said. He shoved his hand into the satchel and rummaged around for the small flask of Crystôl. As he did so, his fingers brushed a larger, smooth flask and he hesitated for a moment. He weighed the smooth flask in his palm, knowing that amber liquid pooled at the bottom of the flask. Sere-vanda. 

He glanced up and suddenly Legolas’ green eyes flicked up and met his. ‘Do not think to trick me.’ The Mirkwood Elf was cold, ice. Like Thranduil.

At that moment, Aragorn knew he had no choice. He dropped the smooth flask and cupped the smaller one of Crystôl with trepidation. He did not think he could do what Elrohir did; had Amron not said as much to him as they left?

His fingers brushed Legolas’ for a moment as he dropped the flask into the Elf’s hand and he hesitated for a moment longer. ‘Only three drops,’ he said emphatically. ‘Three. No more.’ He thought that three drops alone might simply boost the drug already in Legolas’ veins without further effect, and who knew? It might be enough.

He scooped the tin cup into the water infused with athelas. ‘You must drink this as well. It will help fight any infection and clear your mind. I will need you to help me.’ He paused and looked Legolas straight in the eyes. ‘Drink it straight after,’ he said. ‘It will take away the taste. It is vile. Drink it quickly...I wish you would not do this.’ He looked pleadingly at Legolas but met only a hard green stare that was relentless, uncompromising.

Legolas dropped his eyes to the small flask in the palm of his hand. He hesitated only a moment and then he flipped open the lid and sniffed it suspiciously. His eyes narrowed and flicked up to Aragorn’s. He held the Man’s gaze for a moment and then he quickly tipped it up over his mouth. Aragorn watched as one, two, three drops trickled onto his tongue. He lowered the flask, licked his lips carefully and made a face as he pushed the lid back down with his thumb.

Aragorn thrust the tin cup of athelas infusion towards him. ‘Drink. It will help the Crystôl absorb into your bloodstream more quickly. And it will help to dissolve the poison in your veins.’

Legolas took the cup and raised it to his lips. His long green eyes held Aragorn’s for a moment and as before, Aragorn felt a sudden dislocation, and thought of green leaves unfurling in the Spring, of clear, cold water running over grey slate and granite of a woodland stream... Slowly Legolas drained the cup. His eyes were cast down and his dark brows drawn together. Aragorn watched him swallow and close his eyes for a moment.

‘I think I will keep this in case I feel I need more.’ Legolas palmed the flask. ‘At least you are free then from any guilt that might torment you, my friend.’ He gave Aragorn a blinding smile and calmly pushed the flask into a pouch at his belt and patted it. ‘Much better that I have the control of the means to my recovery, I think,’ he said and his face looked cold, as smooth and expressionless as Aragorn had once thought him in Elrond’s council when he had seemed so aloof and remote. Until he spoke of Gollum’s rescue.

‘Legolas,’ Aragorn began, but the Elf gently laid a finger on the Man’s lips.

‘I trust you,’ Legolas said and carefully knelt beside Aragorn again. ‘But I will not put that choice before you again.’ He smiled weakly and held one hand to his forehead, in the other he still held the tin cup, now empty. ‘What happens now?’

‘Time to clean that wound,’ Aragorn said lightly and reached into his pouch for one of his last few athelas leaves and dropped it into the lightly steaming water. Soon the cave was filled with the fragrance of athelas, layering over the athelas already in the water. He breathed in deeply and rummaged through the stack of pans until he found a small pot which he filled with water. Then he pushed up Legolas’ sleeve again and peered at the tiny cut that had caused this. He squeezed it slightly and watched yellow pus ooze from the scratch. It smelled foul and there were streaks of black in the yellow pus so he knew the poison was still strong. Dipping a wad of wool into the smaller pot of warm athelas, Aragorn wiped the wound until it was clean though the thin black threads of poison in the small capillaries showed clearly beneath his skin. Then he wound clean linen bandages around the wound, keeping a careful watch upon Legolas. He made his movements slow and steady. Then he sat back down beside Legolas who looked up at him, blinking sleepily. 

The tin cup fell from Legolas’ fingers and his hand fell heavily to his side. His head dropped on his chest and he tried to raise his head to look at Aragorn but it was simply too much effort.

‘What have you done to me?’ he murmured. 

Aragorn stared in horror and grasped his shoulder, pulled him forwards against his chest. ‘I am sorry,’ he cried in anguish. ‘I should not have let you have it!’ He put his arm around Legolas’ shoulders to stop him from falling. 

‘It is sere-vanda. You tricked me! ’ said the Elf quietly as he slumped forwards over Aragorn’s arm. 

‘No,’ cried Aragorn. ‘It is Crystôl.’

‘I trusted you... and you have betrayed me....’ Legolas slurred. ‘Because of you, Rhawion will perish and his soul be eaten by the Dark. His eyes closed heavily and his head bowed. Aragorn caught him as he fell forwards. ‘I have failed him as I failed Naurion!’

‘Legolas!’ he cried, but the Elf was slowly sinking into unconsciousness. ‘Stay with me,’ he pleaded. ‘Do not sleep now. I need you to help. We must use your Song to heal yourself.’

‘...cannot...stay...ah...Rhawion...you are here...’ Legolas’ voice grew weaker and weaker, distant, as if he were drifting, fading. Aragorn leaned close to his mouth to hear what he said. ‘...I am coming...hold....’ His breathing grew deeper, heavy. Slow.

Aragorn knelt beside Legolas and lay him down onto the ground, watching his breathing and then he leaned forwards and pressed two fingers against the Elf’s throat. The pulse throbbed once, twice, slowed and slowed and the Elf took a deep breath and then it fluttered and became very slow, shallow. Aragorn waited fearfully, waiting in case the pulse slowed even more. He found himself praying to the Valar that it had not been too much, that three tiny drops had not been enough to stop his heart entirely, that Legolas would survive this. He found himself bargaining with Namo for the Elf’s life but he was too experienced a healer to do that for long and instead forced himself to watch for the tiny signs of life and death...Minutes slowed and time crawled and still the faint pulse was slow but did not stop. When Aragorn felt his own muscles cramp, he shifted and tried to stretch his legs out straight but he dared not lift his fingers from Legolas’ throat.

At last the beats were regular, slow but regular and he forced himself to calm and looked at the other signs of life.

He soaked a few thin cloths in the cold spring that welled at the back of the cave and lay them over Legolas’ forehead and wound them around the back of his neck for though Legolas was not overly feverish, he was still uncomfortably hot. He lifted the Elf’s head and carefully spooned the athelas infusion into the Elf’s mouth and held him while it trickled slowly down his throat. It was painstaking work but Aragorn knew this was the best chance he had. He gave him the contentious sere-vanda to help the Crystôl. Then he knelt back on his heels and paused. 

Then he reached into Legolas’ pouch and retrieved the small flask of Crystôl, and shoved it back into his satchel and shuffled back to kneel beside Legolas.

He rubbed his hands over his face in sudden panic, for though one danger was past, another yet remained; he simply did not believe he could do what was needed to help Legolas to heal. Elrohir and Elrond had always been with him before. In the hours ahead he would have to open himself up and attempt to channel energy and Power into the healing. Now that Legolas had taken a second dose of the anti-venom, he had little choice. But he needed to give the Crystôl time to flood Legolas’ veins, and for the athelas and sere-vanda to settle him. 

He began to catalogue what he needed; there were enough provisions for perhaps three or four days for he and Legolas but there was only enough fodder for Roheryn for two days. And Glorfindel would be worried if they did not arrive at Luin-Aglar within the next few days and might come looking for them. He needed to leave signs so that Glorfindel or Amron could find them. But he could do that tomorrow for it would take them another day at least to reach Luin-Aglar and find Aragorn had still not arrived. 

He threw the blanket over Legolas and rolled up a cloak, tucked it under Legolas’ head and settled down to watch. Since there was now no one to object, he drew his pipe from his satchel and a pouch of pipeweed, filled the bowl and having tamped it down, he struck a flame and settled back on one elbow. For the moment, he could only watch and wait

 

0o0o0

 

The wind swept lightly across the snow, flurries scattered over the small tracks made by birds, ruffling the snow from the twigs and branches. It covered their tracks and, Glorfindel thought, it would cover Aragorn’s tracks as well. He stopped for a moment and turned to see Gimli plodding in his wake for Amron was of silvan stock and made barely any marks at all. Gimli sank to the top of his ankles with every step but he seemed almost oblivious. Was it the weight of the chain mail or the Dwarf himself that made him sink so deeply, Glorfindel wondered. 

He did not ask the Dwarf if he needed to rest. Gimli’s gaze was fixed on the snow in front of him and his breathing was heavier than an Elf’s, but Dwarves were Fire and Earth and a little snow was no hardship to a Dwarf. They had fought with Maedhros and Fingon at the Nirnaeth Arnodiad. Glorfindel remembered how the Dwarves had seemed to have come out of the stone itself, their deep voices, the glint of fire upon their axes...He remembered the Firebeards of Nogrod, their immense strength, their deep Song that echoed in the Mountains of Nargothrond and that gave depth to Finrod’s delving into the rock and made it more glorious. A pang of yearning shot through him then, it was uncharacteristic for him but he found he dwelled often upon the past of late.

‘Do you tire, Master Glorfindel?’ Gimli’s voice broke in on him and Glorfindel looked down at the Dwarf and smiled benignly.

‘No. Indeed Master Gimli. And I see that you are not either.’

‘Luin-Aglar is ahead,’ called Amron, pointing to a bend in the river ahead. 

Glorfindel smiled and nodded at Gimli, who flashed white teeth. They climbed quickly now for they hoped to see Aragorn’s big, patient horse standing by the river with their two comrades. Glorfindel found himself anxious to see that Legolas was healing for he had become fond of the Woodelf, though he did not know Thranduil at all except by a rather fierce reputation. But given the sweetness of his son, he thought the rather fierce reputation undeserved. 

It seemed Gimli felt the same for he said, ‘I hope that Legolas is recovered for my boots have become quite grubby and he cleans them so well.’ 

Glorfindel threw back his head and laughed loudly at that.

But when they arrived at Luin-Aglar, there was no sign of Aragorn or Legolas. They made their camp quietly and anxiously. Glorfindel left Amron making the camp with Gimli and with a quiet word to them both, strode up the ridge to watch for their tardy companions.

Hours passed and night fell. Glorfindel waved away Amron’s protest that he should take a watch and he did not reply to Gimli’s muttered agreement. Instead he stood upon the ridge and gazed south, searching for a sign, a thin trail of smoke, the sound of a horse, the merry laugh of a Woodelf...and he found himself anxious and worried that perhaps Legolas had succumbed to the poison and found he could not bear to think of such a death for such a sweet soul.

At last he could stand it no longer. He shouldered his bow and strode down into the camp. Placing his hand on Amron’s shoulder, he awoke him gently. ‘If I have not returned by nightfall, take Gimli back to Imladris and get help,’ he said softly. ‘I am worried. Something tells me everything is not right.’

 

0o0o

The snow was deeper upon Caradhras and the horses sank up to their hocks. The wind howled through the crags and blew bitterly in their faces as they trudged slowly upwards along the mountain paths. Sometimes Elrohir wondered if they would have done better to take the Gap of Rohan, but the knowledge of Saruman’s treachery had gone deep and they dared not risk the Wizard knowing they passed that way. Barakhir suddenly stumbled and Elrohir patted his neck and spoke soothingly. Then he turned back and shouted through the wind to Elladan, ‘Perhaps we should seek some shelter. It seems the Mountain will not suffer any to pass.’

Elladan’s face was hidden beneath his hood but Elrohir could imagine his look of irritation. ‘We have fared worse on Caradhras than this. I am surprised at your faint-heartedness!’ Irritation was in the tone as well, Elrohir thought wincing.

‘Very well. We continue,’ he said and turned back into the sharp, cutting wind that tugged at their cloaks and threw flurries of snow in their faces.

They struggled on for hours, climbing steadily but ever more slowly as their road wound up into the hills, and the mountains towered up above them. What had once been a paved and well used road was in disrepair and there were places where the stones had fallen down the steep sides of the mountain, tearing more stones loose with their fall and these had piled up across the path and tumbled down the mountainside. Now the path was no more than the width of a horse and they now led the horses, and had to scramble precariously over the granite boulders and scree. Barakhir stumbled again and Elrohir’s heart leaped and he hauled on the saddle, stirrup and rein to steady the horse. They stood for a moment, both shaking for fear of what might have been. Below them stones loosened by his stumble, bounced and rolled and skittered down the sheer drop and into the trees far below.

Neither brother questioned the wisdom of bringing horses however. Too often they had been an extra sentry, weapon, and friend on their long travels and they had made this journey many times.

Soon, they knew, the path would narrow suddenly and cut around the edges of the high grey crags and then zig-zag up and up the granite cliff face steadily. Elrohir glanced upwards and saw that heavy snow clouds loured above them upon the peaks and hid Caradhras from view. As soon as they were off the scree and feet touching bare rock once again, he brought Barakhir to a stop. Baraghur and Elladan almost bumped into them for both had their heads down and battled against the weather. 

‘Stop here and let the horses rest,’ Elrohir told Elladan and he determined to take no refusal this time. But there was none from Elladan and instead his brother led Baraghur towards a craggy overhang that gave what could only loosely be described as shelter. They turned the horses away from the wind and loosened girths, unstrapped the saddlebags and took off the bridles. Elladan pulled out their Lorien cloaks from each saddle bag and spread one over Barakhir’s glossy rump and then the other over his own Baraghur. Baraghur whickered softly and nosed Elladan as he fussed around Barakhir.

Elrohir had pulled out of his pack the thin cakes of lembas that were left and gave some to each of the horses for there was little enough for any of them to eat and lembas was made with grain and as sustaining for animal as it was for Elf.

They settled beneath the overhang and watched the snow fall and swirl. Elladan sat on the ground between the two horses and twirled his knife between his fingers. ‘Is it worth lighting a fire?’ he wondered and Elrohir turned his head to look down on him. Even without fire or sunlight, the runes poured over the blade, light seemed to pool in the tengwar script, lit up the M rune that Elladan hoped meant the knife had been made for Maedhros. For all Elrohir knew or cared, it might have been so. For Elrohir, there was more than enough grief in the present. When he did not reply, Elladan sighed and twirled the knife, watching the snow.

‘Sleep brother, I will watch,’ Elrohir said and Elladan shrugged, pulled his own sable cloak about himself and lay on the ground at the foot of the crags. Elrohir stood with his cloak pulled tight, standing invisible against the rocks with Aícanaro sleeping in its sheath. 

He watched the swirling flakes and thought for a moment of Glorfindel and his small group, and his awareness flickered over the Mirkwood Elf but shied away quickly for there was an uncomfortable sensation gathering in his belly, searing through him to his loins and squeezing his balls.

Snow edged the trees and granite boulders in glittering white but all was silent and still as though the cold had frozen all but they. Here on Caradhras, the memories were sharp and brittle, his senses were strained to the limit. Every soft fall of snow, every rattle of small stones brought his head, listening intently. Sometimes he saw ghosts...Once he had seen a warrior, with a helm from long ago that clasped his face and sharpened his silver-grey eyes. In his hand he had carried a long sword that gleamed and when he drew close, Elrohir saw the gleam was red....Kinslayer. Dispossessed...And Elrohir had simply stood by and let him pass like mist...

He felt Aícanaro shift and its awareness awaken, hiss and uncoil but he let his hand drop to stroke the hilt and calm it. Sleep, he said. Sleep. Calm. There will be more blood.

 

tbc

Hope you all liked the extra bit of Glorfindel - especially for those who asked.


	20. Nine for Mortal Men

Note: For those unfamiliar with the Silmarillion:

1) Celebrimbor (or Tyelpinquar) was Feänor’s grandson and founded Ost-in-Edhil. He would have therefore been lord also of Phellanthir. He made the Elven Rings and was betrayed and later killed by Sauron. Tolkien suggests that Celebrimbor and his smiths overthrew Galadriel and Celeborn as lords of Eregion. 

2) The Tears - reference to The Battle of Unnumbered Tears where the forces of the Noldor were decimated by Morgoth, Fingon was slain and the forces of Gondolin were there- presumably Glorfindel. Maedhros would have had Feänorian armour of course, which I like to think of as lighter, better than any other since Feänor would have made it himself for his children. 

3) curwë – technology, as in the skill of making technical things, and science. The Noldor excelled at this. Tolkien writes about this in his essays - I think he has an ambiguous attitude towards this exemplified in the Rings of Power. If Feänor made the Palantrii, why could he, or Celebrimbor, not have made Galadriel’s Mirror?

Erestor’s horse is called Nifradil (Snowdrop.)

 

Beta; Anarithilen. As always, thank you for the spit and polish!

Thanks to reviewers:Wherever Winter Fell, Raisinet, Pilvi, Alanic, Melusine, iiieyes, DT, Kimberly kim, Freddie, Melethen, and on efiction.esteliel.de lisse, fadestothewest, danty, Spiced Wine, Naledi, Alpha Ori,and on HASA Aiwendiel and Azalais, and on A03 ingrid, aeskis, bloodupontherose.

 

Chapter 19: Nine for Mortal Men

 

West of the Misty Mountains, a cold frost-laden wind drifted down across the Gladden Fields and wound through tall grasses that waved and showered the very last few seeds across the dry earth. A tremor shifted in the air, stroked an invisible hand over the surface of a lake and ruffled the golden leaves of Lorien.

Deep in the heart of the wood, lay a shadowed place, secret. Secret, for the silvan elves were suspicious even now, and preferred the idea of magic to curwë*. So deep green shadows and moss crept over the cool stones, and ferns shaded still pools of dark water.  
Shaded by ferns and resting on smooth slate was a shallow bowl. It gleamed, shone softly. Obsidian glass made of a blasted star. The water within was absolutely still, dark. A mirror… 

…Except when her long elegant finger sketched over the surface of the water, drawing ripples. Light shot through the dark water then. Like lightning in the night sky. And then the Mirror awoke and Time bent under her Will, parted its hazy veil.

Galadriel half closed her eyes and watched through her eyelashes, still, stroked her finger around the edge of the Mirror until the edge began to resonate and a low hum reverberated through the grove. She saw her own reflection but dimly at first and watched the light shoot through the water so it trembled, seemed to breathe with the reverberation and Nenya flashed again. The light caught upon the black glass which absorbed it utterly. 

She watched the inky water, and with Nenya parted the shadows that drifted and took shapes...across time, across the spaces in between, unravelling the threads of Vairë’s loom to peer ahead....

...Across the Mountains they come, clung about with shadow...a coiled serpent at his hip...lost in blood and guilt and lust. His sweet self beside him.  
Something has been found; it reeks of Annatar, Mairon…  
Nine rings for mortal men...  
Two riders, black and white in a ruined tower...there is a Ring that awaits them. No, It does not want them. It feeds upon feâ that is lost....

This is Now, she knows.

A glorious rider leads a mass of shadowy warriors, spears glinting in the sun, a banner flaps and curls...is torn and bloody...a body hoisted up, shot with arrows...  
Two riders, black and white, in the Tower, before it was ruined, when it was ruined, after...

This is Past, and it still hurts to think upon Celebrimbor who was betrayed even as his blood had betrayed others, as he had betrayed her.* 

A ring of fire lost in the dark…  
Shadow and Flame…  
A white tree...  
Nine rings...Shadows in a leafy land, a sleepy land of quiet sweetness…  
Nine Walkers set against them...one from each race.  
A Man with trumpets and snapping banners, proud, falls quiet, listens…  
A Dwarf and an Elf walk side by side...Narvi? she thinks with a shocking pang of loss. And Tyelpo? No. A strange Elf in green and brown...They fight back to back. She knows that is important for some reason.  
A haunted face, so young...he bears what she does, and more. It destroys him...  
No.  
A hand reaches out.  
That too is important.

There are other things too, that she sees....

Trees blazing, fire devours everything along the riverbank, Elves flee as they did long ago in Sirion...No, Menegroth. No… the trees are not carved stone. They burn.  
A beloved face looking up, summoning Power, a ring upon his finger, an iron crown...a black horse falls upon a battlefield before a winged creature and is trampled. She no longer knows if she sees the future or the Past...her grandfather or the children of her House...

She frowns and leans forwards, peers through the threads of time. She runs Nenya once more around the edge of the obsidian pool and the light pierces the dark, reflects briefly and she sees her own face…

....a Ring upon her finger...No. Two rings. A tower raised above her, many spires, a beautiful city, like Tirion. Tall spires. They are all there, her glorious brother, her magnificent cousins...they bow, hands on their chests. Ah. Not lost completely then...and she casts about for the King and sees it is no King but a Queen...

The water ripples and the images clear. She is panting, breathing hard and there are tears upon her cheek when she comes back to herself.

The grove is silent and the Moon has risen. 

Galadriel rises, holding the edge of her chair as she does so, leaning on it as she straightens. As always, there is the smell of saltpeter in the air, and the scents of jasmine and rose are cloying. Her fingertips tingle as if charged, and Nenya is still. The bowl glows like the Feänorian lamps of her childhood, or the Palantri. And she feels the threads fall back into place around her like a cloak in this charged and secret place. Slowly she returns to herself and only the trembling in her hand shows where she has been, and she longs for the others who knew, who understood and shared the secret knowledge of the Noldor. She does not wish to know lore, like Elrond. She wants knowledge. Curwë. Longs for it. 

She remembers Annatar. Giver of Gifts. Deceiver. Her lip lifts in the slightest of sneers, the Grandaughter of Finwë. I am for you, Sauron, she says and she knows, from the tinge of red in the Mirror, that he can hear her, for he alone now has such knowledge that is now lost, she thinks, even on the other side of the Sea. 

What will she find if she picks her way through the bones and debris of Barad-dûr? As Queen.

Blossoms fall from the mellryn trees and she lets her hand touch them lightly, pass over the huge trees. There is the slightest tremor as she passes.

0o0o

 

Amron had stirred and sat up at Glorfindel’s gentle awakening but even as Glorfindel turned to leave, he saw that Gimli too, uncharacteristically, was awake and sitting upright, an air of watchful alertness about him. 

‘Something comes!’ Even sitting down, head to one side listening, Gimli seemed for a moment to be more, to be almost rooted in the earth. ‘I feel the movement in the earth, the stones echo,’ said the Dwarf and Glorfindel was disinclined to ignore any son of Aulë.

‘Is it Orcs?’ Amron asked, rising to his feet, his bow already strung and he scooped up his quiver. 

Gimli shook his head. ‘I do not think so...sounds more like horses? A herd of horses perhaps? But they sound heavier. Riders maybe?’

Amron looked up. ‘I hear them now. Horses indeed and being ridden at great speed. I hear the jingle of bits and stirrups. No discrete scouting this!’

Glorfindel climbed swiftly to the ridge above camp, closely followed by his two companions. He gestured irritably to them to hide, to keep hidden and peered between the shady bushes and saplings. 

After a while he too heard them and then he could see the shapes of horses moving swiftly between the trees, dapple and bay and chestnut. A glint of armour and steel. They moved recklessly fast, loudly and with no sense of secrecy. And then he heard a loud, indiscrete laugh and shouting. Oaths and curses. In Sindarin. One voice loudly cursing its horse. Glorfindel sheathed his sword and would have rolled his eyes but he would not give the newcomer the satisfaction. He straightened and stepped out of the scrub to greet them.

‘My lord Erestor!’ Amron said in complete surprise.

Glorfindel stepped from between the trees, knowing the starlight would catch on him, and did not seek to dim his feä from the approaching Elves. He was aware of Gimli standing close, his war axe gleaming.

‘Ah! There you all are!’ It was indeed Erestor trotting between the trees on his horse, which was much like Erestor himself; a very tall, sleek, black horse that wore a look of complete contempt on its long face. Erestor bred his own horses, it was said, for their bad temper and extravagant gait. But behind Erestor’s horse, amongst about six or seven Elves all mounted, was Asfaloth with his keen eyes and graceful shake of his long mane. Glorfindel could not help but feel a surge of gratitude that Erestor had at least thought to bring him. 

‘Greetings, my lord Glorfindel.’ Erestor was impossibly smug as he reined in, looking down. His tall black horse snapped at Glorfindel irritably and as Erestor made no attempt to reprimand or stop him, Glorfindel fixed the horse with a piercing stare. The horse shook its mane but did not try again, but Gimli stepped back quickly out of range of its teeth. 

‘What news?’ Glorfindel asked, reaching out to Asfaloth and stroking his nose with a smile. One of the best horses he had ever had, he thought. Asfaloth bumped Glorfindel affectionately and bent his head for the customary knuckle-rub on his poll. Glorfindel nodded and smiled at the warriors with Erestor. Two of the warriors were of his own company, Annael who had been born in Imladris some years after the Last Alliance, and Saeldir, who had arrived before the fall of the Dragon from Lorien. Erestor had once told him Saeldir was a spy for Galadriel but Glorfindel thought it unworthy and unlikely. He nodded to the other men who rode with them. He knew them all of course but less well.

‘I thought you had gone to the High Pass?’ he turned back to Erestor.

Erestor lifted a supercilious eyebrow. ‘We dispersed the Orcs gathering on the High Pass and we...’ his hesitation was momentary, ‘…received information there that more Orcs were on the way from the South. Elrond decided you might need my help. So here I am. And it rather looks as if you do.’ He looked around. ‘There was a largish band of Orcs on your trail. But I suppose you knew that.’ He nodded at his men who began to dismount. ‘They are no longer a threat.’ Though his tone was light, there was an intensity in his amber eyes. ‘Now. What have you done with everyone?’ 

‘Elrohir and Elladan have taken the messages south,’ said Glorfindel, standing close and keeping his voice low. ‘We await Aragorn and Legolas...We lost Rhawion.’ 

Erestor looked at him for a long moment and said nothing. He slid down from his horse then, pulled the reins over its head and clasped Glorfindel’s shoulder briefly. He did not linger though and unbuckled the girth and without bothering with the stirrups, slid the saddle from the black horse’s high back. Its coat was lathered and sweaty and the horse shook himself and snorted, then rubbed its head disrespectfully against Erestor, hard until he removed the bridle . 

Erestor dropped the saddle onto the ground, leaving the bridle curled like some sleepy reptile, calling to his men, gesticulating. ‘Make camp,’ he called to his men. ‘Post a guard there,’ he pointed to the ridge, ‘there and there,’ He pointed to the opposite bank and the head of the shallow camp. 

Glorfindel was not surprised at Erestor’s easy, efficient command but it looked as though his men were still reeling from the shock of Lord Erestor commanding them, and even more from seeing him in action. For he did not patrol, and rarely hunted. They would know him as an advisor perhaps, a counselor… but a warrior? He wondered if they knew with whom Erestor had ridden, had fought, and was tempted for a moment to tell them. But they had seen Erestor now in battle, such as it was, although neither he nor Erestor would see a skirmish against a bunch of disorganized rabble of Orcs as anything serious, it was as much as most of these youngsters had seen, Glorfindel thought and was glad for it. He noticed something was bumping against Erestor’s side and craned his neck for a better look.

Erestor caught him looking. ‘A toy for Elrohir.’ he said grinning and holding it up. It was the head of a particularly ugly Orc. One eye hung from a socket by some grisly stringy stuff and its tongue was black and lolled from its open mouth. He caught Erestor grinning at him. ‘We saw that Elrohir had been out playing earlier.’

Glorfindel could not think what he meant for a moment until he remembered the Orc that Legolas had finally put out if its misery. ‘There’s a story there,’ he said grimly. ‘But not now. Put that abomination somewhere else for Elbereth’s sake.’

Erestor lobbed the head into some long grass where it rolled and the back of its head was towards them. A dark patch of wet gleamed on its long straggly hair and Glorfindel frowned and looked away. ‘You are as bad as he,’ he murmured.

Erestor shrugged and took three long strides to the river and looked up and down. Then he turned back. ‘As good a place as any I suppose.’ He cast Glorfindel an appraising look as he shrugged his cloak from his shoulders. ‘A story you say? And where is the Heir of Isildur? Surely you have not mislaid him? And the son of Thranduil?’ He flashed a grin which Glorfindel found intensely irritating.

‘Legolas was injured, in Phellanthir,’ he said shortly. ‘Poisoned. Lhach-rhaw.’

Erestor’s face changed. And then abruptly he plopped down onto the grass and began pulling off his boots. ‘Ah! At last.’ He shook his boot upside down and a tiny stone fell out. He looked up at Glorfindel. ‘And?’

‘And Orcs were on our trail, as you said. I sent Aragorn on with him.’ He turned his head as Gimli approached. ‘They are not here.’

‘So I can see.’ Erestor pulled his boot back on and rested his hands on his knees. Glorfindel caught a glimpse of armour beneath his tunic and was not surprised. Most wore only leather armour for hunting Orcs or pursuit, for the metal armour was too heavy for the light elven horses. But Erestor’s horse was eighteen hands if an inch; long, loose limbed, smooth gait, elegant, bad tempered. Unpredictable. And the armour he had last seen hanging in Erestor’s rooms. Once he had lifted the pauldron and it had been light as fish scales and as flexible, warm and strange in his hands. Feänor? he had thought in surprise. But no, he had looked for the maker’s mark and found the eight-pointed star within it; Curufinwë then, he had realised, and had laughed at his own disappointment. 

He suddenly felt a ripple of amusement and saw that Erestor was watching him with those strange amber eyes that were vulpine and sardonic and predatory. 

‘I am worried about both of them,’ he admitted, coming back into the present. ‘I was about to start searching for them when you arrived and glad I am to see you.’ 

‘And I am not quite ready to go back,’ Erestor admitted in his turn and unbuckled the very pauldron that Glorfindel remembered. He lay this carefully to one side and the cuirass followed, then carefully, the rest. But it seemed so thin and fine Glorfindel would not have believed it could be any protection at all had he not seen the state of Maedhros at the end of the Tears.*

‘Good! I am pleased to see reinforcements,’ Gimli interrupted his thoughts and came to stand beside them. He had unbraided his hair as he did every night, and it lay long and thick over his broad shoulders. His earth-brown eyes looked up at Erestor, flickered with interest over the armour and Glorfindel saw the Dwarf’s fingers twitch as if to touch it. But he did not. Unswayed from his purpose, Gimli continued, ‘We need two groups, Master Erestor. One to retrieve Rhawion’s body - I assume you have told him what happened?’ He gave a quick glance to Glorfindel. ‘And one party to retrieve Aragorn and Legolas.’ He stamped on the solid earth beneath his feet as if testing it. ‘I cannot believe, my lord, that you are quite ready to give up and go home after such a successful hunt!’ He cracked his knuckles and grinned cheerfully. 

Glorfindel slanted a quick glance to see Erestor smile approvingly. ‘Indeed Master Gimli, I feel we have only just started. I suggest we devise our plan over a meal.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Gimli clearly returned Erestor’s approval, thought Glorfindel and was surprised at how sour he felt. It was unlike him and he shook it from him like a dog shakes water from its coat.

Amron had already begun to reheat a stew that they had had earlier and which would have served for the next day’s supper. But the newcomers brought gifts of two more rabbits and it seemed that travelling with Erestor meant fresher bread that any warrior’s rations Glorfindel was used to, and a ripe cheese. There was even wine that Erestor produced from a flask tied to his saddle.

‘We will leave at daybreak,’ Erestor said looking quizzically at the stew Amron had heated. He lifted a very very small amount onto the silver spoon that he produced from nowhere and tasted it gingerly as if he thought it would bite. Then he lifted his head and smacked his lips together. ‘Excellent,’ he declared and Amron, who seemed to not realise he had been holding his breath as if hoping for approval, smiled. ‘Is this why you always take Amron on your patrols, Glorfindel?’ he asked grinning. 

Glorfindel smiled slightly, because in part it was true. ‘But we do not have wine,’ he replied, lifting the flask of wine that was surely far better than an Orc-hunt warranted. 

Erestor inclined his head graciously. ‘And now you do.’

After a while, they turned their attention to a plan, which was simple enough though not entirely to Gimli’s liking. Gimli was to lead a number of warriors back to where poor Rhawion’s body had been hidden, and to bring it home. Glorfindel insisted he lead the search for Aragorn and Legolas, and as he expected, Erestor insisted on going with him.

Erestor and Glorfindel sat long after the other men had gone to their beds, looking up at the stars and watching the fire. Glorfindel told Erestor all that had happened and when he had finished, Erestor was very quiet, thoughtful.

‘Surely you do not think it true? That Rhawion is caught somehow in Phellanthir?’ Glorfindel asked when the silence had drawn out too long for comfort. But a niggling thought had been growing in the back of his mind; he had seen for himself how Legolas was attuned to the Song, how he understood the world around him as others did not. It was something he had always been told of the Silvans, that their connection with Arda was somehow different, more intense...Perhaps he had seen something that Glorfindel himself had not?

Then he shook himself; silly thoughts borne of a long and arduous journey, that was all. The Nazgûl were not Morgoth. They did not have the skill or knowledge to sever the feä of an Elf. Not even Sauron had mastered that particular skill. 

Erestor raised his head as if sensing Glorfindel’s thoughts. His long legs were stretched before him and he was propped up on one elbow, his black hair was caught back in one long, thick braid and was pulled over his shoulder. ‘I remember when the Nine were made,’ he said quietly and Glorfindel stilled; he had not realised that Erestor was in Ost-in-Edhil at the same time as Annatar, or Sauron as he later revealed himself to be. 

‘Those Rings had a darkness in them that fed on something more than just their bearers.’ Erestor seemed lost in thought then but Glorfindel stared at him, a cold chill creeping down his spine. 

‘I was not close to the Making itself,’ Erestor continued but he was not oblivious to Glorfindel’s growing horror. ‘I am not a Maker myself of course. Merely an observer, a scholar of curwë.’ He raised his eyes briefly to Glorfindel. 

Never a mere scholar, thought Glorfindel wryly. 

Erestor smiled slightly. No. He looked back into the fire. The flames burned orange and sent a small shower of sparks into the night.

‘I remember Tyelpo’s excitement that they were finished...He could hardly contain himself, and Annatar beside him, smiling so indulgently.’ Erestor examined his fingernails nonchalantly, but the slightest crack in his voice betrayed him. ‘Smug bastard stood there and told us all how the Rings would enrich us. If only your grandfather, Tyelpo, had bent his mind to a greater purpose such as this....Preserving and elevating instead of mere beauty,’ he mimicked a deep, warm voice. 

Glorfindel sat silently, wondering how it was that no one guessed Annatar’s real identity, not even Galadriel.

‘I wish I had killed him then,’ Erestor said bitterly. ‘Or unmasked him at least...except I only had suspicions then and Tyelpo would have thrown me from the city to the wolves had I told him. You have no idea, Glorfindel, how compelling he was, how persuasive.’ Erestor stared into the fire, but he was seeing something else, long ago, a strange expression on his face. ‘He had come to Tyelpo saying he had been sent by the Valar to give him knowledge, curwë.’ He glanced at Glorfindel then as if he were about to say more but stopped himself. 

There was a sound in the undergrowth and both looked around, listened for a moment to the small mammal that scurried past the quiet camp on its own quest. In the silence, Gimli snored gently and a horse sighed. 

Glorfindel turned back to Erestor. ‘You said the Nine Rings fed on something?’ he prompted quietly, knowing he had to continue but wishing he did not.

Erestor gathered himself and said, ‘Long after Sauron was revealed and had razed Ost-in-Edhil, the Nazgûl were uncloaked. Nothing remained of the powerful kings they once were; the Rings had devoured their bearers. Oh, I do not mean their flesh and bone. That was devoured by Time as mortals are. No. They are called Nazgûl for a reason. The Rings fed on their feä and now they are merely vessels of Sauron’s malice and power. But only now do I begin to realise that the Rings are still hungry.’ The fire reflected in his amber eyes, and suddenly Glorfindel understood why there were all the stories in Imladris about Erestor. The amber eyes turned to him for a moment and Erestor said, ‘Think you that the morgul blade Aragorn took from Weathertop is the only one? What do we know of these weapons of Morgoth?’

A chill struck Glorfindel. ‘That was Angmar’s, he struck Frodo because he would not yield the Ring,’ he said slowly. ‘Elrond said Frodo would have become a wraith. I thought it a relic from the old days.’ He took a quick breath as realization dawned.‘You think it was not the only one.’

‘Elrond and Mithrandir are disturbed by the discovery of that blade,’ Erestor said. ‘And what you tell me disturbs me even more.’

‘Ah, Elbereth! Rhawion...’ Glorfindel said, closing his eyes. 

When he opened them, Erestor was watching him but not in amusement. ‘It is not the Valar who will help us,’ he said bitterly. ‘They care nothing for us. We will have to do this on our own as usual.’

Glorfindel said nothing. He did not agree but he did not speak his prayer aloud for he knew Erestor would scoff.

o0o0o

It was barely light before Gimli was rousing them, uncharacteristically, thought Glorfindel, for usually the Dwarf slept deeply until the very last moment and only then rolled from his bed and announced himself to the world. Glorfindel had not slept well after he and Erestor’s conversation and his waking dreams had veered off into the Past, and he dreamed of Angmar, the Witch-King and Fornost. It had been a restless night. Now he stretched and looked up at the sky. Arien had already risen and brought her chariot over the Misty Mountains. It looked a fine day; snow glittered on the boughs of trees and frosted over the hard earth and he shook the cobwebs of sleep from his bones.

Erestor was returning from the river, swinging his arms and humming a song Glorfindel did not recognize. Erestor slowed beside his tall, grumpy horse, which laid its ears back at him, and regardless he slung the saddle over his withers. The horse snapped its teeth at Erestor and he laughed indulgently.

They made quick work of breakfast and were soon saddled and mounted.

They bid farewell to the Dwarf’s party soon after leaving Luin-Aglar, Gimli perched comfortably enough it seemed, behind Amron and Glorfindel was left with only Erestor, Annael and Saeldir. 

Before they parted, Gimli caught Glorfindel’s sleeve and said quietly, ‘I trust you, my lord Glorfindel, to bring them both back quickly and safely. My heart is unquiet until I see them both gathered in.’

Glorfindel nodded and looked into Gimli’s earnest brown eyes. ‘I will see it done. And bring Rhawion home to us,’ he said but he knew that Gimli had seen the disquiet in his eyes.

‘Do not let Legolas drag you off into some misadventure!’ Gimli said urgently, his grip tightening on Glorfindel’s sleeve. ‘Bring him home. He is not in his right mind.’

‘You have my word, Gimli Gloinsson, that Legolas will not be going off on any further adventure,’ he promised. And he was quite determined that he was going to keep that particular promise.

 

0o0o0o

 

It had been an hour since Aragorn had given Legolas the Crystôl and it needed to have time to work. In that time, he had tried to make the Elf as comfortable as possible, and now that Legolas seemed to be sleeping, actually sleeping, Aragorn chose to go outside. Half an hour at most, he warned himself. He was anxious. Two days had passed since they left Glorfindel. They should easily have reached Luin-Aglar by now and he knew Glorfindel would be wondering where they had got to. So Aragorn had walked down to the river and left signs, his own rune scratched into the bark of trees, stones cunningly laid so that a trained eye would see, and know that they were there. He had caught two unwary conies as well and skinned and washed them carefully in a small cold stream. The prospect of meat instead of lembas was a cheering thought.

When he returned he found Legolas restless and sweating. The Elf’s eyes flickered back and forth as if watching something and his breathing was shallow and fast. Aragorn dropped the rabbits for the moment and scooped cold water from the spring into a pot. Then he knelt beside Legolas and pushed the rolled up cloak more comfortably under the Elf’s head. He soaked thin linen cloths in the cool water and then squeezing them out, he gently wiped the sweat from the Elf’s skin and then lay damp cloths over Legolas’ forehead, on the back of his neck, over his chest and arms He looked into Legolas’ pupils which were more dilated and again, catalogued the symptoms. Another crisis was close perhaps and maybe this would be the last, he hoped. He did not want yet another violent attack where Legolas knew not if he was a friend or enemy. 

He dipped a second pot again into the spring and placed it on the fire, took the last of his athelas and crumbled it into the steaming water. He dipped the tin cup into the pot and filled it with the infusion. This he brought close to Legolas and cupped the Elf’s head, slowly trickled it into his mouth. But moments later the athelas seemed to have had the opposite effect and Legolas’ eyes were wide open, staring at nothing and his hands batted away imaginary enemies as if he were being attacked. His lips moved but Aragorn could not hear what he said. When Aragorn leaned forward again to take his pulse, Legolas’ heart pounded so Aragorn thought it must burst. Tiny black threads popped up under his skin showing the track the poison was taking through the veins, they concentrated on his chest, near the heart and on the neck. His face was white. 

Aragorn put his hand over his mouth for a moment as if to stifle a scream. Legolas’ breaths were coming now in little short gasps and he did not know what more he might do.

Aragorn wiped perspiration from his own forehead and threw his cloak from his shoulders. He had made a mistake, he thought frantically. He should have let the Crystôl already in Legolas’ veins take its course. He cursed Elrohir for making him even think that a second dose of the anti-venom might even be right... and Elladan for giving it to him so it was there in his satchel. Elrond was right. The Crystôl was killing him, his temperature so high that surely his body would overheat and start shutting down and the venom seemed to be winning, it black tendrils seemed to writhe beneath the Elf’s skin. 

Legolas started shaking again, uncontrollably so that when Aragorn tried to pour infusions of athelas into his mouth, it just dribbled from the corner of his mouth and pooled in his collarbone. Even when Aragorn lifted the Elf’s head up and tried, it made no difference because Legolas then thrashed his head from side to side. He could not keep him still. The cup clattered to the ground spilling the liquid. Aragorn gritted his teeth in frustration and snatched it up. He shuffled around and straddled Legolas, pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. With one hand, he held the tin cup against his closed lips and with the other, he cupped Legolas’ head but the Elf closed his lips tightly against him. Aragorn cursed silently and worked the brim of the cup between his lips. Legolas spluttered and his eyes shot open. He flexed his arms and bucked but Aragorn was ready for him and pressed all his weight down upon Legolas’ arms. 

Legolas shouted furiously, ‘You fucking Orc! Bastard! Whore of Morgoth!’

Aragorn blinked but did not let him up. 

‘Son of Morgoth and a Warg Bitch! Get off me you Goblin-fucking....’ The words that followed were words that Aragorn had never heard before. Mirkwood dialect words he guessed; he was sure they were uncomplimentary. Spittle flew from Legolas’ lips and his eyes were shot with fire. Aragorn bore down, pressing his knees into the inner part of Legolas’ elbows so the Elf cried out.

‘You asked me to help you,’ Aragorn said as calmly as he could, looking down at Legolas,. ‘In fact, you made me swear it. And that is what I am doing.’ He steadied himself with one hand by the side of Legolas’ head, so when the Elf braced himself, slid his feet up so his knees were bent and then suddenly pushed up and tried to throw Aragorn off, Aragorn was ready. Knowing the Elf was weakened by the poison, Aragorn flipped him onto his belly and pounced down onto his back, putting all his weight onto the Elf and bending his arm up painfully.

‘Will you stop fighting me!’ he shouted in Legolas’ ear, pressing his face into the ground. ‘I am trying to heal you, not hurt you, you stupid, ungrateful ...’ 

His own words were drowned out by the stream of expletives and curses from the MIrkwood Elf. And he answered with a stream of his own. When they had both exhausted every curse and swear word they knew, they remained, panting for breath. Legolas’ cheek pressed down into the ground. Suddenly and with an immense effort, Legolas wrenched his arm from Aragorn’s grasp and heaved upwards, throwing Aragorn from him. Aragorn rolled, hauling the Elf round so Legolas was on his back and Aragorn landed heavily on top of him. They glared at each other face to face, breathing hard. The tin cup of athelas tea lay with the precious liquid spilled over the dusty earth.

Aragorn leaned heavily over him, face to face, so he felt Legolas’ breath on his own mouth. He looked deeply into his eyes, willing the Mirkwood Elf to understand him, to see him, to know him. And suddenly Legolas opened his eyes and Aragorn felt that strange dislocation and the world seemed to tilt. He thought he smelled rain on the dry summer earth, the snap of a banner in the wind, a trumpet’s clarion call that stirred his blood and made him proud...and there was the sound of the wind shuddering through a banner wrought with silver thread, a silver crown and stars. Steady heartbeats, steady hoofbeats, and a white city where the bells rang out to greet the Lords of Gondor...a horn sounded, rang through the trees and the pound of feet, his heartbeat...

A whoosh of light and the wind caught them both, their hair a tangle of dark and pale. Aragorn fell forwards onto his elbows and gripped Legolas’ head tightly so he could not move. 

‘You will listen to me,’ he said with all the command and imperative he could summon. ‘And you will do as I say.’ He found himself fixed in Legolas’ own gaze, saw deep green, flecked with gold like new leaves in a beech wood, or the still deep pools beneath the mosses and ferns of the forest. There was the distant sigh like the Sea....‘You will let me in.’

Suddenly it seemed Legolas went limp in his arms and for a moment, was very still. Then Legolas gazed up at him with something like relief. ‘You are here!’ he whispered. ‘You have come.’

Aragorn frowned slightly. ‘Yes. I am here. I have sworn to help you. And I will.’

He had not noticed how dark it had become, nor realised that the fire had died and gone out. And it was suddenly very cold. The cave seemed very big and he could no longer see Roheryn or feel the horse’s warm and comforting presence. 

He shuddered like something had skittered over him. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw something moving, below him in the darkness at his feet. 

When had he stood? 

Legolas turned to him, and Aragorn saw how weak he was, the dark circles under his eyes and the pinched look of his face. One hand clasped his arm as if it was painful and he was hunched over slightly...Hadn’t he been lying down a moment ago?

Aragorn was confused and then something brushed against his leg in the dark below him. Something dry and smooth. It slithered away and he shuddered, looking down. He could see nothing...but there was a sound, a dry sound. As if something reptilian was slipping over the cold stones. He wanted to lift his feet up but he could not see where he might go - the Dark pressed against his eyes, his face, his mouth...and he could only see Legolas’ pale face turning towards him. 

A dim, eerie light seemed to shine from the Elf himself but Legolas was gazing at him in wonder. ‘How you shine! Full of the light of the stars you are.’ Tentatively Legolas reached out and brushed his fingers lightly over Aragorn’s face. Then he looked at his hand and smiled. His smile was enough to make Aragorn stare for it was full of naive wonder, and sweet as any child’s. ‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn, line of Kings. You vanquished the Witch-King. I heard Frodo say it.’ He lifted his head to meet Aragorn’s puzzled gaze. ‘The Nazgûl is here. It has Rhawion. We can free him,’ he said breathlessly. 

Aragorn started to say that no, he had not vanquished the Witch-King, that Angmar had chosen then to leave Weathertop having done what he intended. But he stopped suddenly and stared around him. Darkness pressed upon him, he could only see Legolas; his skin was very pale, and his eyes were wide. Suddenly something blocked out the Elf’s face from his view, something dark and he heard scuffling and then Legolas was before him again, his long hair tangled and his eyes wide with fear. He clung to Aragorn and looked about himself in the same panic that Aragorn felt.

‘What was that?’ Aragorn asked, knowing his own eyes were wide.

Legolas glanced at him fearfully. ‘You do not know?’ He shuddered. ‘It is out there somewhere. It hunts me.’ 

‘Not the Nazgûl?’

‘No. Not that. I do not know...’ Suddenly something seemed to shoot out and wrap itself around Legolas’ waist. The Elf struggled and threw it off. But no sooner had he wrestled one from his body than another leapt up, and this time Aragorn saw it was like a thick black tendril writhing over Legolas’ chest, squirming its way sinuously around him until it had wrapped about his chest, slid around his neck. Legolas cried out and dug his fingers beneath its coils and Aragorn saw the Elf swayed for a moment, and struggled. Then Aragorn came to his senses and seized the blunt end for it had no head, no mouth, no eyes. He found himself retching with horror and revulsion as he tore it from Legolas’ body and threw it from them both.

‘It is some serpent,’ he whispered and a deep horror came over him so his hairs stood on end. Below him, the darkness seemed to move with the sound of dry scales slithering. He felt sick.

‘More than one,’ Legolas whispered and he slowly moved one foot back towards Aragorn. ‘Have you a weapon?’

‘I do not...’ But Aragorn felt a weight at his side and found that in his hand he clasped the hilt of a sword which gleamed and shimmered with light. He raised it and looked at it with confusion. Runes poured with light. But there was no light in this cave, only darkness. Surely he had no sword in his hand before? 

‘I have a sword,’ he told Legolas in surprise. ‘You?’

The Elf frowned and shook his head. ‘I had something...but it has gone.’

Aragorn raised the sword in front of him and there was a seething hiss from below and he felt the dark mass of coils retreat from him. 

He looked again at the blade. It shimmered, like the knife Elladan had which glowed when Orcs were near. Aragorn swiped the sword carefully into the darkness at his feet and again, there was an angry hissing. The blade glowed and its light seemed to melt into the darkness without being diminished. There was the sound of sinuous, dry scales slithering quickly away and then suddenly a long black tendril snaked up over Legolas, quicker than the eye could see, it shot around his thigh, waist, chest and reached for his neck again. Another leapt for his arm and snaked along it towards his shoulder and Aragorn leapt forwards and together they shoved the muscular coils off him, the heavy mass falling softly into the dark below. Shuddering, Aragorn clutched at the Elf with his free hand and Legolas gripped it. They clung together for a moment as children.

‘How did I get here?’ Aragorn asked, looking down into the darkness.

‘I have been here... for a long time,’ Legolas said and he sounded lost and very weary. ‘I lost my knives...’ He waved a hand over the seething mass beneath them. ‘Somewhere in there. They will go quiet and then attack again. I cannot hold out much longer. I cannot say I am not glad to have company, but I regret your being here.’

As if they knew his weakness, there was a sudden hissing and the undulating mass seemed to writhe more angrily. Aragorn thrust the shining sword into the dark and it retreated. He pulled Legolas behind him, shuddering. Suddenly blunt, blind heads nosed at them with vicious aggression, twisted about their legs and he hacked at the mass without precision. One thick black coil thrashed and writhed, its pink flesh showed through a cut Aragorn had made in its flesh and Aragorn struck again, this time slicing it in two. But the ends waved about blindly, horribly and then tumbled to the ground. A black tendril clung suddenly to his leg, nosed its way up his thigh and he slashed at it with his sword in panic, in horror. He heard Legolas panting and struggling behind him and turned to help. He almost gagged with revulsion for a thick black tendril was draped horribly over Legolas, and was twining itself around his thigh, waist, chest and now nosed its way towards his head. Another had pinned one arm and he swayed, trying to shove the coils away from his neck. Aragorn could see Legolas’ eyes wild and panting above the coil and the serpent reaching with blunt, unseeing head towards his face. 

Aragorn leapt forwards and struck with his shining sword, but the blade seemed to sink into the strangling serpent with no effect. He dug his fingers hard beneath its coils to shove it off but instead he felt it tightening. He heard Legolas’ breath gasping, saw that the Elf’s mouth was open trying to draw in lungfuls of air but another tendril of darkness suddenly thrust its way upwards and clapped itself over his mouth and then all Aragorn could see was the long green eyes wide in panic. Coils seethed and squirmed over him, engulfed him and although Aragorn hacked at them, still more writhed up from the dark. Under their sinuous weight, Legolas crashed to his knees and Aragorn slashed carelessly into the strangling mass. He lifted one coil after another and shoved it from the Elf. He struck again and again with his blade and it sang, like notes. The runes flickered and flowed over it, poured from the blade and plunged into the mass of darkness. Cleaver, it seemed to sing....Dream Cleaver...Aragorn plunged the sword into the undulating coils and pulled out and stabbed at another... 

Suddenly he understood. Dream-Cleaver. The sword was called Crystôl...and it poured with light and magic. Runes swirled and melted on its shining blade and the blunt, black serpents cringed from him; the blade shimmered and flowed more like light than metal and it seemed to pour into the darkness, dissipating it. Where the blade struck, the terrible serpents withered and squirmed. Aragorn knew then what he had to do and struck again at the coils that were beginning to fall from Legolas and grabbed at his arm, shoving the Elf behind him, he wielded the blade now like light, understanding that he was directing the Crystôl against the spread of choking poison, that somehow his being here was as a result of the athelas. He hacked and sliced through the dark mass and light poured from the blade and shone around them. The serpents thrashed in the light, their outlines blurred now and darkness washing away like the blood of the conies he had washed in the cold mountain stream earlier....And they were gone, just the blurring of darkness gathered in one place; in the midst of the dark was a yellow-green gash. This was the wound from which the poison leaked serpents of darkness to strangle and suffocate Legolas. Aragorn strode towards the gash and plunged the sword it. The dark closed over it, and vanished. They were left standing together, blinking in the light...

Aragorn was still blinking when he looked down into the long green eyes of Legolas, wide open and gazing at him. He realised he was still on top of Legolas, pinning him down, face to face, close, almost touching his mouth, when he heard footsteps outside the cave.

 

0o0o0

 

Before midday, Saeldir had found Aragorn’s signs by the river and dismounted to lead his horses carefully through the thin birch saplings, anxious not to miss or destroy any further signs. Glorfindel knew Saeldir was a good scout and left him to follow the signs that Aragorn had left.

‘There is a Rangers’ cave somewhere near here,’ said Saeldir. ‘Up there, beneath the ridge as I recall.’

As Saeldir was one of Glorfindel’s best scouts, he motioned Saeldir to lead the way carefully. Saeldir held up his hand to silence them for a moment and he listened, then crept carefully to the mouth of the cave and listened again. Suddenly he relaxed and motioned them forwards.

‘They are within my lords,’ he said softly. ‘There is no danger. Two men and a horse only.’

‘Stay here and guard,’ Erestor instructed Saeldir but Glorfindel was anxious to see them both safe and well so he stepped lightly past Erestor. He saw no signs of intruders and no tracks. Even so, both he and Erestor paused before sweeping aside the curtain of ivy that hid the cave mouth from view and ducked inside. 

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness although the cave was not dark. There must be some shaft in the roof, Glorfindel thought to himself. A small fire crackled in the middle of the cave and he noted Roheryn standing at the back, head turned towards them inquiringly. But then he saw Aragorn, lying face down. Aragorn had turned his head to look as they entered the cave. And was frozen in shock for a moment.

At first Glorfindel thought Aragorn was injured but then he realised that the Man lay on top of something, someone. Legolas. Both were flushed and breathing hard. Immediately Aragorn rolled off Legolas and onto his knees. He did not look at them at first, straightening his tunic, belt, collar, His hair was mussed and his lips had the bruised and swollen look of passion and his face was very high coloured.

Glorfindel looked away in consternation and embarrassment. Erestor snorted but even he, Glorfindel could tell, was a little shocked, and surprised.

‘You found us,’ Aragorn said unnecessarily. 

‘Just as well it seems,’ Erestor said drily and stood looking down at Legolas, who struggled upright but could manage no more than to half sit, propped up on one elbow. His long hair was untidily disheveled and the blanket had slipped down over his hips. He was half naked but Glorfindel was relieved to see he still wore his breeches. Then he saw that they were unlaced at the top. Confused, Glorfindel forced himself to look elsewhere. There were so many reasons why they could be unlaced, he told himself. 

‘I hardly dare ask what happened to delay you for two days,’ Erestor said, a little coolly. 

Aragorn turned to him. ‘Legolas was sick.’ His voice was tight, weary. ‘We had to take shelter to give him time to rest. And Roheryn and I were tired. Unlike you I need to rest!’ 

Glorfindel looked back down at Legolas, noting Aragorn’s unusual defensiveness, assessing Legolas’ condition. Bruises showed on his arm and there was a cut on his lip, but these could have come from Glorfindel when they had suppressed Legolas, he thought guiltily and remembered how Legolas had wept and begged them not to drug him further. He moved to stand beside Legolas and looked down at him kindly. ‘Are you well now?’ he asked, quickly noting the dark circles under his eyes, and how his skin seemed so pale in spite of the strange painting over his shoulder and chest. Kindly, Glorfindel kept his eyes on the Elf’s face and tried not to look as alarmed as he felt at the cuts and bruises that he thought were more recent. 

Legolas blinked slowly as if awakening from a deep sleep. ‘I was ill...But I feel better now,’ he said, his cheeks were flushed and his green eyes flicked towards Aragorn as the Man moved about the cave, picking things up, pulling his own tunic straight, combing his fingers through his hair.

Erestor crouched beside Legolas then and pulled his face first to one side and then the other. He pressed his fingers to Legolas’ throat checking his pulse and stared at Legolas’ face for a moment. Then he gently pulled Legolas’ arm up to inspect the bandage. ‘Is this where you were wounded?’ he asked. 

Legolas looked up at Erestor, all big eyes and naive innocence, thought Glorfindel. Just what Erestor likes. And he surprised himself with the flare of protectiveness towards Legolas for there was something indefinably sweet and if not innocent, naive about him.

Glorfindel quickly stepped closer to where Erestor crouched over Legolas. He bent down to lightly touch the bandage on Legolas’ arm and was pleased that Legolas did not wince as he had before. ‘It is healing well?’ He glanced at Legolas.

‘Yes my lord.’ Legolas raised his eyes to Glorfindel and the high colour in his cheeks deepened. He pulled the blanket self-consciously above his hips as if aware suddenly of his deshabille. ‘Aragorn helped me. He gave me more Crystôl and then he...um.’

‘I was healing him when you arrived,’ Aragorn said emphatically. He dabbed a finger on his lip and looked at it. Glorfindel saw a spot of blood come away on his finger. 

Erestor saw also and frowned and strode towards Aragorn, pulled away his hand and saw a scratch that bled. ‘What happened to you?’ He fixed Aragorn with a steely gaze and Glorfindel too noted the beginnings of a black eye and thin lacerations around the Man’s wrists. Erestor touched them lightly, frowning.

Aragorn met his gaze more calmly now. ‘I was healing him,’ he repeated. ‘It was difficult. He was still delusional. Nothing more.’ The Man’s grey eyes met Erestor’s first, then Glorfindel’s.

Glorfindel breathed in. Aragorn was betrothed to Arwen. There was nothing here. He put his hand trustingly on Aragorn’s shoulder. ‘Of course you were.’

Erestor swiped away dust on the Man’s jerkin. ‘Of course you were,’ he repeated. ‘We never said any different. It just looked as though you were fucking each other senseless.’

Glorfindel heard both Aragorn and Legolas gasp and he tutted. He could never understand Erestor’s irrational desire to shock when smoothness was needed, to ruffle when calm was required and to be just so damned irritating.

‘I did no such thing!’ That was Aragorn. Incensed.

‘Is that what it looked like?’ asked Legolas faintly.

Glorfindel glared at Erestor. ‘We never truly thought such a thing either,’ he said soothingly and patted Aragorn on the arm. ‘You know how Erestor likes to tease.’

He smiled soothingly at Legolas and turned his attention to Roheryn, for whom he had always had a soft spot. He needed a minute to collect himself anyway and fished out a lump of sugar from his pocket. It was stuck with bits of fluff but Roheryn gently took it with his thick rubbery lips and half closed his eyes as he crunched it up.

The cave was well provisioned and safe, Glorfindel thought approvingly. Erestor had already ducked outside the cave and Glorfindel could hear him telling Annael and Saeldir to search the surrounds and post a watch. Then Erestor returned with his own saddle and bridle.

‘Nifradil will be better off out of doors,’ he said of his own horse. Glorfindel noted the small space and agreed with some relief. It ended up that all of them camped outside after a while. Legolas agreed that he was much happier beneath the stars than under rock and the air was cleaner and did not smell. There was no question that the cave smelled like a stable and whilst Glorfindel did not dislike stables, he felt he would rather not sleep in one. Around the fire, Aragorn told briefly what had happened and from Legolas’ face, there was much he did not know and, Glorfindel thought astutely a lot that Aragorn left out and that Legolas was happy that he did too for he was very quiet, almost shy. Glorfindel resolved to talk to Aragorn later when they were alone and decided they would both take the last watch together.

Finally Erestor leaned forward and threw an unnecessary amount of kindling on the fire so it leaped and flared, lit in his amber eyes. Then he said, ‘So Legolas, you think Rhawion is still somehow trapped in Phellanthir?’

Glorfindel caught Aragorn’s look of irritation. But Legolas looked up with sudden interest kindled in his dull eyes. He had been silent for the whole evening, unless he was directly addressed, and Glorfindel was sure it was not the shyness that had plagued him when they first set out from Imladris.

‘I know I am still sick,’ he said but his voice was steady. ‘But I am certain still that Rhawion has somehow become trapped there. There was unholy light when we left, and the Tower came down but it was not a natural thing.’ 

Glorfindel rolled a small pebble between his finger and thumb thoughtfully. The lightning that had torn the sky open around them had been tinged with something else; a sickly greenish light had come up from the Tower and there were flashes of red and white amongst it. A dreadful wailing had come from the ruins and had made the hairs on his arms and neck rise. Thunder too had seemed to come from inside the tower and the earth shook. It was the Nazgûl’s ring that had summoned that power, he thought. It was that which had ripped the stones apart and Rhawion had already been dead when they got out of there...perhaps he had died in the moment of the lightning strike. He felt another’s eyes upon him and glanced up to see Erestor very still, very quiet. 

‘Tell me what you saw when you were sick,’ Erestor said gently.

 

o0o

 

Almost dawn. The stars were at their brightest, thought Glorfindel tilting his head back and looking upwards. Had they ever seemed so bright in Tirion? He dimly remembered a blush of light seemed always to be across the skies and it was never truly dark. His father had railed against it by the end and Glorfindel found himself dwelling on those who were lost when he felt eyes upon him. He glanced up towards where Aragorn stood the last watch on the ridge above but the Man was looking south, away towards Gondor and Glorfindel guessed his thoughts lay with the quest ahead. They had already spoken of what had passed in the cave and Glorfindel thought there was much to discuss with Elrond on their return. He had Aragorn’s promise that he would confide in Elrond everything, especially how he had used the Crystôl and athelas.

It was Legolas now who watched Glorfindel, and who dragged his eyes away as soon as Glorfindel turned to him. But Glorfindel was so used to the young being in awe of him and the old being less trusting.

He smiled gently. ‘Are you feeling more like yourself?’ he asked softly.

Legolas nodded. ‘I am sorry for the burden I have become. Truly. I have never been such a burden on anyone. I hope not anyway. Although Galion would disagree and my brothers probably. But to my comrades I do not think I have ever given them cause to return for me from their mission.’ He looked down and seemed to be pulling a thread from the sleeve of his tunic.

‘If you keep doing that it will be threadbare by your return home,’ Glorfindel smiled. ‘Is it Galion you say keeps your father’s house?’

‘Yes. He does not do mending though, we have to do our own.’ He said it like it was a well worn truth and Glorfindel wondered what kind of a place had its warriors and sons of self-styled kings do their own mending. ‘There is no one else to do it for you?’

‘No. We do for ourselves well enough in the Wood and my father says we should live as Illuvatar intended.’

Ah, well that was certainly Oropher speaking, Glorfindel thought but he said nothing. 

Legolas looked down and licked his lips as if nervous and Glorfindel knew there was something he felt he needed to say. He waited quietly without prompting and without hurry. He leant back on his elbows and looked up at the stars, breathing deeply of the night air. Snow lay on the air, and the earth slumbered. He liked this time, liked the wild. The cold stream ran merrily nearby and he imagined the clear water running over the small grey pebbles and flat stones.

‘In the Wood, we train from the time we can stand, to handle a bow.’ Legolas‘ voice was quiet, hesitant. ‘My best friend is...was... Anglach.‘ Glorfindel flicked his gaze up quickly to Legolas‘ face, recognizing in the low tone, a confidence and despair. ‘He died when Gollum was released.‘ 

Glorfindel nodded silently and leaned forwards to dunk a tin cup into the athelas tea that Aragorn had kept warming over the fire. It filled the air with its pleasant fragrance and Glorfindel handed a cup to Legolas and then took one for himself. He sipped it quietly as Legolas spoke of his young friend, how they had grown up together, their first expedition South and how frightened Legolas had been of the sheer number and violence of the Orcs. But Anglach had given him courage, made it a competition to see how many they could kill. 

On the day of Gollum’s escape, Legolas had found Anglach...Legolas spoke in that quiet trembling voice of the bereaved and at the end, he looked up. ‘I promised him that I would tell you of him,‘ said Legolas earnestly, ‘so that you would know there are those in the Wood who have also died standing against the Shadow. Like you. Though not against a Balrog of course,’ he added hurriedly. 

Glorfindel smiled. ‘He was a fine warrior,‘ he said. ‘And friend. I wish I had known him, I would have been proud to stand with him.’

Tears welled up in Legolas’ eyes then and he pressed his hand against his chest as if his heart hurt, and looked away. His long pale hair swept over his face and Glorfindel felt a sudden tenderness and wanted to sweep his hair from his face and comfort him. 

‘Death is not the end,’ he said quietly and Legolas raised his deep green eyes, blinking through tears he was unashamed to shed. ‘It is not to be feared. It is the pain before death that we fear.’ He smiled very very gently and said quietly, ‘No. It is not to be feared...The grey curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass...’ His thoughts turned inwards then and far away. He smiled now for himself. ‘And then you see it. White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.’*

They sat quietly for a while and Glorfindel pretended not to notice how wet Legolas’ face had become, nor the snuffles and surreptitious wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve. Instead he merely handed Legolas a handkerchief, which the Mirkwood Elf looked at blankly at first. 

‘It is something Hobbits have given the world,’ Glorfindel said seriously and after a moment of confusion, Legolas smiled, and even Glorfindel, whose heart was very firmly closed and locked in the past felt a little dazzled by the sweetness of that smile. ‘I had them make me some when I saw their usefulness,’ he added.

After Legolas had finally fallen asleep once again, Glorfindel sat back. He understood now Legolas’ compulsion to save Rhawion. It was bound up with his sense of having failed in keeping Anglach safe and with not giving the other warrior who had been taken, the strange Mirkwood ‘milui-criss’. It was not without precedent, he supposed; had not Maedhros begged for it when he was hanging from Thangorodrim?

‘That was kindly done.’ A low voice startled him from his musings. He looked up to see Erestor, still lying in his blanket and with his eyes half open as if in sleep. 

They were quiet for a moment and then Erestor said, ‘In the morning, I am going to Phellanthir. Care to join me?’

Glorfindel said, ‘Yes.‘ 

tbc

 

* Gandalf says this in the movie to Pippin on the dawn of the Battle of Pelennor. Thought it would make sense for Glorfindel to have seen the same since they were both reborn.


	21. A Parting of the Ways

Beta: The very wonderful Anarithilien.

 

Thanks to all those who reviewed - your encouragment is very very appreciated.

 

And those who read on www. efiction. esteliel. de will recognise one extract in particular, but it just had to be done!!

 

OCs

Annael

Saeldir

Amron

Rhawion - killed in Phellanthir

Niphredil – Erestor’s horse. Name roughly means Snowdrop.

 

Other notes – In speaking to Glorfindel, Erestor reverts to the old names for things, uses Quenya

The Cristhorn –where Glorfindel fought the Balrog

Valarauki- Balrog

Glaurung- Dragon of the First Age

Curumo- Valinorean name for Curunir, Saruman.

* Some movie =verse from The Hobbit where Radagast brings a morgul blade from Dol Guldur to Gandalf.

 

Summary: Erestor and Glorfindel have found Legolas and Aragorn. Gimli and Amron have been sent to recover Rhawion’s body. 

 

 

Chapter 21: Parting of Ways

 

The plan for Erestor and Glorfindel to return to Phellanthir did not go down well with either Aragorn or Legolas of course. Annael and Saeldir were much too polite to protest but there were quizzical looks between them and raised eyebrows as they went about their business of clearing the camp, feeding the horses and tacking up. 

 

‘I am coming with you,’ Legolas said immediately, half rising but he was still too weak from the poison and the anti-venom which had left him shaken and exhausted, and Erestor easily pressed him back down to his bed.

 

‘Foolish child. You will be no help whatsoever like this,’ he said and though the words were hard, Glorfindel saw that a smile touched Erestor’s lips and his tone was kind. ‘You must go back to Imladris and get well. Do you think this is your task? It is not.’ He crouched beside Legolas then and pulled the Woodelf’s resistant face towards him, looking into his eyes. ‘You have another task I see. It will redeem you thoroughly, do not fear so.’ 

 

Erestor leaned forward and to Legolas’ surprise but not horror by any means, Glorfindel noted disapprovingly, kissed him full on the lips. Not a quick peck either. Then Erestor pushed the hair back from Legolas’ face and smiled. ‘You are a sweet child. Just what they need.’ He nodded to himself at something only he knew and Glorfindel wondered what in all of Arda it must have been like with Erestor adding to the heady mix of Feänorian brothers, cousins and mad hangers-on. 

 

Glorfindel noticed too that Aragorn raised an eyebrow at Erestor’s kiss and when the tall counselor rose to his feet and looked at Aragorn, the Man took a nervous step back ‘No silly ideas from you either,’ Erestor said, but he was much sterner with Aragorn. ‘You are going back too. Annael and Saeldir will keep an eye on you. Elrond has need of you,’ he said emphatically, and then added smoothly, ‘And Arwen.’

 

‘You cannot go on your own! Glorfindel...’ Aragorn began to appeal but Glorfindel held up his hand and shook his head.

 

‘No. I am in agreement with Erestor this time. You are needed at home. You have much to do and this is not your task either.’ He wondered even if it were truly his task, or Erestor’s but he could no more bear to leave one of his men to rot in Phellanthir, feä or not, than he could have run from the Balrog to save his own skin. He swung his pack over Asfaloth’s withers, glad to have another friend and weapon should he need it. And he knew Erestor was subtle in ways that Glorfindel was not. He had cunning and secret craft.

 

They led Erestor’s horse, the inaptly named Niphredil, and Asfaloth up the slope to the top of the ridge and there they mounted. Niphredil laid his ears back and snapped at Asfaloth, who swished his tail but otherwise ignored him. Glorfindel thought perhaps he ought to do the same with Erestor when he snapped and jibed.

 

Then they took their farewells and left the three Elves and Aragorn standing watching them, Legolas leaning on Aragorn for support and Annael and Saeldir, he was sure, trying to forget what they had heard from Erestor about the way they had found Aragorn atop the youngest son of Thranduil.

 

The ground was hard from the frost but the sun was out and the snow was melting. The old road that once lead to Ost-in-Edhil and Moria and Tharbad was nothing now but crumbling remains of the causeways with the paving broken up and scattered about. At times there was a wide track that ran alongside it worn by those merchants and traders still hardy enough to trade between the Northern regions and Rohan, Gondor and the East. They had to pick their way over the river at one point, for the bridge was broken and the ford deep and treacherous. But their sure-footed steeds were steady in the pulling current and they emerged sleek and wet, though also cold. Erestor urged Niphredil into a long gallop then to warm them all up. 

 

But the air was cold and fresh, and Glorfindel’s face tingled with it. By afternoon they had covered many leagues and now they were walking, to rest the horses, for even Niphredil had tired a little. Asfaloth stopped abruptly to rub his nose on his foreleg and Glorfindel sat easily, waiting for him to finish. They would make camp soon, somewhere near the river even though they were only one or two days maybe from Phellanthir. He watched the ridge above him, carefully scanning it for movement. Nothing. The thin line of trees, birch saplings, were bare of leaves and their silver bark gleamed. Here the snow was a thin layer, more frost than snow and it laced the boulders of the cold grey river. Above them, loomed the Misty Mountains. 

 

Towards dusk they made camp and Glorfindel managed, after both he and Erestor had missed several times, to shoot a rabbit. He thought wryly that Legolas would have wasted fewer arrows and bagged more. Now he crouched by the stream while Asfaloth drank, he quickly, efficiently skinned the rabbit. Erestor scouted the area for Orcs, Wargs and Dwarves, as he said with a scary grin, and to be honest, both needed a moment away from the other. Erestor swore as if he delighted in finding the most blasphemous oaths he could think of and Glorfindel, always a soldier and no delicate flower himself, found himself wanting to cover his ears at times. Erestor even swore in the Black Speech. 

 

Tutting to himself, Glorfindel washed the rabbit’s blood from his hands, watching the blood slowly wash away in the cold melt-water, noticing the grey-blue pebbles and flat stones of the stream and thinking how Gimli would have lifted one from the water to consider, and comment on its size and type, carefully cataloguing its use and its source. He shook his hands and then wiped them on his cloak, thinking that he liked the Dwarf, unexpectedly. His generosity towards Legolas had surprised Glorfindel, who had fond memories of the Khazad from the old days. When they had pinned Legolas down and were forcing sere-vanda and Crystôl into him, it was Gimli who had stopped them, and it was Gimli who had soothed Legolas and asked him what he could do. Glorfindel was ashamed of himself now for having allowed that abuse, and he vowed to make it up to the Woodelf on his return. 

 

He had been touched too, by Legolas’ quiet admission of the previous night, that he had been unable to make the Merciful Cut for his comrade, that he had vowed to tell Glorfindel of his valiant friend...although Glorfindel could not now remember the boy’s name. And I must, he told himself. I must make sure I remember them all.

 

The sky was still grey but the clouds were higher and snow seemed a long way from here. Above him the mountains loomed and he looked south as far as he could and could just see the peaks of far Caradhras and Celebdil. The sun shone on their snowy peaks so they seemed gilded. 

 

It seemed a luxury to have this time, these precious moments of quiet when the whirlwind and storm were about to break upon them and he took the time to strip his tunic and shirt from his back, hanging them carefully on a low hanging branch. He waded into the water and dipped himself in briefly for it was cold even to Glorfindel. But he found himself thinking again of Legolas, dwelling upon the strange markings on his well muscled torso that was surprising on one so apparently light and lithe. I am getting giddy, he thought to himself in disgust, to be dwelling upon some young warrior from Mirkwood! But he knew that it was not Legolas that he saw in his mind’s eye. No, not just some young warrior, he admitted finally to himself. Thranduil’s son. 

 

It was a long time since he had last thought of Thranduil...

 

He waded out of the river, letting the water stream from his body and with them, he let those thoughts wash away. Pointless. Wasted.

 

On the river bank opposite a young stag wandered, nosed about in the thin snow and then pawed it up for the grass beneath. Suddenly it was startled and leaped away. Glorfindel dropped to the ground, cursing under his breath for a moment’s inattentiveness. But then an eagle cried far above and circled and he saw that the deer had been frightened by the bird. 

 

Glorfindel settled the horses, ignoring Niphredil’s flat-back ears and flattened nostrils, and dug a small fire pit, built a fire and began cooking the unfortunate rabbit. Glorfindel thought that the greater skill of Legolas’ shooting would have yielded them more, and the greater skill of Amron’s cooking would have made it tastier. But it was edible. He tasted it lightly and added a little salt from the pouch Erestor had left with him. 

 

However by the time Erestor returned, the rabbit was overdone and Glorfindel had already eaten his share. He had stripped the meat from the bones and thrown the carcass far from the camp so the foxes could eat and they would not be disturbed in the night. But Ithil was high by the time he heard a cheery whistle and Erestor came striding towards him.

 

‘Where have you been?’ He winced at the irritation in his own voice. ‘I was wondering if I would have to come and find you.’

 

Erestor gave him an enormously wide smile and plonked himself gracelessly down next to the fire. He reached out and pulled the shredded meat towards himself, tore off a hunk of bread and flipped open the wine flask in his saddlebag. He took a great long gulp before he finally lifted it and smacked his lips showily, shoved it towards Glorfindel and then devoured the meat hungrily. When he raised his face again to Glorfindel, there was grease around his mouth and wine stains on his lips. 

 

‘You are as bad as Legolas,’ Glorfindel observed. ‘He too has the manners of an Orc.’

 

Erestor smiled delightedly. ‘Really? I am pleased to hear it. There are too many tales that Woodelves nibble delicately on nuts and fruit, don’t eat meat and sip wine. I have never been able to reconcile that with what I know of Thranduil. And certainly not Oropher!’

 

Glorfindel waited patiently whilst Erestor ate his fill and carelessly tossed a thigh bone into the bushes behind the camp, followed with an apple and threw the core in the other direction. Eventually he leaned back on one elbow, and stretched out his long legs. Glorfindel quashed his irritation because he knew Erestor would enjoy that and instead said as mildly as he could, ‘Well?’ and then, because he knew Erestor would tease, he said, ‘Where have you been and what have you been doing?’ so he tied Erestor down to proper answers and not wordplay.

 

‘I went to look at the Tower,’ Erestor replied and Glorfindel swallowed a gasp; he was back, he was safe. He did not need to protest, it was too late anyway. 

 

Erestor narrowed one eye and looked appraisingly at Glorfindel. ‘You are very sanguine,’ he observed. Then he said, ‘It is yet many leagues and I merely saw it in the far distance but even then it reeks of Nazgûl. It may have even been a refuge for them, an easy place to ride out from in their hunt for the One. Darkness swathes it. I am sure Legolas is...well, maybe not completely right in that Rhawion’s feä is trapped there...but it is an evil place.’

 

Glorfindel looked away. If Rhawion was trapped there, it was his fault; he had been so anxious and determined to get them all away as quickly as possible. He had given no thought to what Legolas had claimed, merely dismissed it as a delusion. He should have gone back...

 

‘I hope you are not indulging in recrimination.‘ Erestor interrupted his thoughts and Glorfindel wondered how in the Heavens he had guessed. He glanced up with a wry smile.

 

‘How did you know?’

 

‘My dear Laurëfindë, how could you not? You are one of the most conscientious and honourable people I have ever known. Certainly the most honourable person in the…what are we now? The Third Age?’ There was humour in his eyes as he added, ‘You cannot of course equal Maedhros and Maglor whose integrity stands above anyone’s. Ever,’ he said with a trace of defiance that had never quite been quelled, ‘But all those others, you easily outmatch.’

 

Glorfindel felt vaguely and bewilderingly flattered. He was never quite comfortable with the Feänorian references with which Erestor liked to smatter his conversations; it was as if he wanted to brandish his old loyalties in the faces of those whose kin they had slaughtered and betrayed, as if he never wanted to let anyone forget them. It left Glorfindel with the same old confused admiration and loathing for them that he had always had. But saying something would merely give Erestor something to spar with so he said nothing. 

 

‘I suggest we do not go into the Tower in the darkness,’ Erestor continued unnecessarily for Glorfindel had no intention of doing that, pulling his blanket over his shoulder and settling down to rest. ‘Will you take the first watch?’

 

‘It seems I already am,’ Glorfindel commented drily as Erestor grinned at him and wriggled until he was comfortable.

 

Briefly Glorfindel wondered what Erestor dreamed for he was asleep so quickly and he did not move all through Glorfindel’s watch and had a pleased smile on his face throughout.

 

When it came to Erestor’s watch, Glorfindel did not rest so well; his own thoughts drifted constantly to Gondolin, and took him on the secret paths to the Cristhorn**, where there awaited him Shadow and Flame...He slept fitfully and whenever he awoke he saw in the firelight, Erestor staring at a knife he held between his fingers, carefully as if its bite were to be feared.

 

At last he sat up, no longer trying to find a pleasant dream. He pushed his long hair out of his eyes and blinked. Erestor was sitting, leaning back against a tree, his amber eyes watched Glorfindel thoughtfully and the knife he held, Glorfindel realised, was unfamiliar. For some reason, Glorfindel shivered.

 

‘I wondered what you dreamed,’ Erestor said, slanting his eyes at Glorfindel. ‘Was it the Valarauko*’

 

Only Erestor would dare intrude so, thought Glorfindel, but he nodded anyway. There was no point hiding anything. 

 

‘Does it plague you often?’

 

‘No,’ Glorfindel said shortly, hoping that would finish the conversation but he should have known better.

 

‘I remember, at the Pass of Aglon,’ Erestor said conversationally. ‘Glaurung* roaring across the plains. It was enough to make me piss myself...in fact I even think I did. But there were Valarauki and Orcs and ... other things I cannot name even now.’ Erestor yawned, as if such things were a common occurrence. ‘Of course by that time I was well used to Orcs and Balrogs, but not the dragons. I never got used to the quiet before they struck.’

 

Glorfindel knew what he meant. There had been no warning in Gondolin. It had been such a still day, sun warm on the stone. Water splashing in the fountains. There were fountains in every square, on every corner in Gondolin. He stopped himself from remembering because Erestor was watching him sharply, and instead he casually threw more kindling onto the fire.

 

‘I think that day on Aglon,‘Erestor continued, watching the kindling catch and burn. ‘I almost ran. Only Maedhros kept us onwards by his will alone. He was invincible that day, burning with such hate and fury they dared not meet him and we dared not leave him.’ Erestor’s lips curved in a smile and he looked down at the dagger he held lightly between his fingers. ‘You know, I think he would have fought his way to Morgoth with his bare hands and alone. But I like to think that he had learned from Fingolfin’s folly.’

 

‘And Feänor’s too,’ Glorfindel bit back. He did not ask if Erestor had also pissed himself at Doriath, or Sirion for he caught a sly smile on Erestor’s face and would be goaded no further. It seemed Erestor’s undeclared ambition was to well and truly rile Glorfindel though Glorfindel would not give in. So he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm. ‘The Past seems to have caught us both in its web,’ he said instead, knowing his calm would irritate Erestor even more than Erestor irritated him. ‘And it is intruding too much on the present,‘ he finished. 

 

It seemed that Erestor realised he would get no more from Glorfindel for he was silent for a moment, turning the dagger this way and that, looking at it carefully but it did not catch the light. ‘I too worry that Curumo* knows too much of our defence, our strength, he said thoughtfully. ‘He knows Ash Nazg is in Imladris surely?’

 

Glorfindel frowned. ‘He was in all our council.’ He leaned slightly forwards to look at the knife; it was not the one Erestor usually carried, he mused. Suddenly he was very cold, all thoughts of Saruman forgotten. ‘You have brought that with you?’ he asked and could not keep the outrage from his voice.

 

Erestor looked up. He held the knife carefully between his fingers, but he did not twirl it between his fingers as he normally did. ‘Elrond thought I should for some reason. Only now is it becoming clear,’ he said thoughtfully.

 

Glorfindel snorted in disgust. ‘You will forgive me if I do not believe you?’ he said coldly. ‘For I cannot imagine in any circumstance that you should carry a Morgul blade!’

 

Erestor smiled then, and for the first time ever in their long acquaintance, Glorfindel thought the tales could be true about Erestor. ‘Which is it? That you do not believe Elrond told me to bring it or that it is becoming clear why I have brought it?’ he asked and his thin lips curled upwards in a typical sardonic smile.

 

‘Both,’ Glorfindel said flatly. “It is not in the least beyond you, Erestor, to take it upon yourself to steal it, and it is not beyond your arrogance to believe that you can wield it.’

 

Anyone else would have protested but Erestor put his hand on his heart and bowed his head slightly. ‘You flatter me,’ was all he said. 

 

‘That is not even the one wielded by Angmar. Aragorn only brought the hilt,’ he said even more angry now. ‘Where is this one from?’ He was outraged. 

 

‘Oh, I think this must be the one Radagast brought from Dol Guldûr.’ Erestor was nonchalant but his eyes gleamed.* ‘You remember when the White Council was finally persuaded to act? It was because they had proof. Finally.’ Glorfindel remembered it well, for it was the day that Saruman had finally agreed to that the White Council had cause to fear the Necromancer.

 

‘Elrond or someone must have dropped it,’ Erestor said, firelight glinting in his eyes. ‘And I did not want Curuno to have it.’

 

 

0o0o

 

 

Riding in the other direction and towards Imladris, Aragorn and Legolas drew close to the Mountains along the Bruinen. The air was cold and fresh, and Aragorn found himself riding along the riverbank with more ease than he had been for days with Legolas clinging behind him this time though he complained no end that he felt like a swooning maid being forced to ride pillion. There was a spare horse too for they had brought enough horses for all but Gimli. But with both Saeldir, who had assumed command on Glorfindel’s departure, and Annael insisting he would ride pillion behind Aragorn, or one of them if he preferred, Legolas gave up arguing and agreed to ride with Aragorn rather than one of the Elves. 

 

Aragorn was strangely pleased, flattered, and it had been oddly easier riding with Legolas behind him. Legolas was improving all the time, Aragorn noted, and he did not languish against Aragorn as he had done before. Legolas hummed or sang quietly under his breath almost all the time, he noticed, and Roheryn did not stumble once. If he had been a fanciful man, he would have almost sworn the trees and plants brushed lightly against them as they passed. Certainly Legolas brushed his fingers against every leaf within reach but Aragorn found it more soothing than irritating. And he found himself happy and content for once being who he was. The quest did not daunt him, even Boromir’s proud and haughty disparaging of Isildur’s line.

 

Not that he could blame him, Aragorn thought generously as they plodded along. Isildur was so weak that only a moment in the company of the Ring had been enough to lead him into the blindest stupidity in history. 

 

He rubbed his beard which itched a bit and then he shifted his sword at his belt. Saeldir was ahead of him and Annael behind. He did not know Saeldir well but had ridden once or twice with him when hunting with his brothers. 

 

Their path had brought them close and within the shadows of the mountains. 

 

Slowly he became aware that Legolas had stopped singing and he glanced round to see the Elf was looking up at a ridge above a scree slope on the mountain side on the other side of the river. Annael and Saeldir were also looking upwards. 

 

‘Keep going,’ Saeldir said softly. ‘There is something up there. Annael, can you see what it is?’

 

Annael was looking above, carefully scanning it while Saeldir kept his eyes ahead. Aragorn followed his gaze but saw nothing. The thin line of trees, birch saplings were bare of leaves and their silver bark gleamed. In the melting snow, patches of cold brown earth and the dull grass could be seen, and to their right was the cold grey river. But the Misty Mountains were a brooding if magnificent omnipresence and the heaviness of them weighed upon him.

 

‘Legolas, can you see anything?’ he asked quietly.

 

For a moment Legolas did not answer but then he said as quietly, ‘We are being watched. But I know not what or by whom. I dare not look for long in case they realise they have been seen.’

 

Although they did not pass the pyre of Orcs, the smoke was still drifting far enough for it to tint the breeze with the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair. It made Aragorn faintly sick and he could not rid himself of the image of the blackened hair of an Orc catching fire, its head sifting as the mass of carcasses burned. ‘Can you smell the pyre? It still smoulders and burns. Perhaps that has brought other things from the Mountains. Orcs and Goblins are not the only things to live up there.’

 

Saeldir turned slightly and glanced at Aragorn. ‘Yes- the stink will bring other things from the Mountains. But Orcs may watch the road too. In the High Pass, they were gathering for something. There was an excitement within them that I have not seen before.’ He paused to consider and then said, ‘Perhaps once I have seen this.’ He did not say when and Aragorn knew better than to ask. 

 

He was aware of Legolas surreptitiously stringing his bow as they rode and he felt the moment the Elf brushed his fingertips over the fletchings to check the number.

 

‘Should we take cover?’ Aragorn asked over his shoulder.

 

‘Not yet,’ replied Legolas. ‘Whatever it is, is merely watching.’ Saeldir nodded agreement.

 

They rode on in silence and Saeldir gave a signal that they should break up a little and ride through the trees. Roheryn pulled away a little from the others and each horse wove between the trees on its own path. At last Aragorn too was aware, he felt something watching with hostile eyes. Suddenly there was a small clatter of stones high up on the mountains. Instantly Legolas leapt from Roheryn and was drawn and poised to shoot.

 

‘Orc,’ Saeldir said briefly. 

 

Aragorn joined Legolas on the ground only a moment later. He could see Annael and Saeldir taking cover likewise between the trees and sending the horses off into safety.

 

‘Too far away and I cannot see anything up there now,’ murmured Legolas. He was very still and then a moment later there was another clatter of scattered rocks down a scree slope opposite. There was a sudden whoosh of air beside Aragorn and on the cliff face, something dark fell from a rock, thudded against the cliffs and tumbled far below. They did not see where it landed and there was nothing else.

 

After a moment, came a disbelieving voice. ‘Was that your shot, Annael?’ It was Saeldir. 

 

‘No. And I know it was not you! Must have been Legolas,’ Annael replied just as surprised. 

 

‘Was that the only one? What was it?’ Aragorn called softly.

 

‘Yes. Only one. Probably an Orc or Goblin sentry to spy on the road,’ Saeldir called back. After a moment of silent, tense waiting, he came towards them, shouldering his bow. He clasped Legolas’ shoulder and grinned. ‘That was a mighty shot my friend.’

 

‘A lucky shot,‘ Annael came up beside them. ‘But still a mighty shot!’

 

‘Not luck but skill,’ Aragorn said with admiration and a little pride in Legolas too if he were honest. ‘I have seen him do such shots before.’ Legolas was still looking up into the Mountains uneasily.

 

‘Well if Aragorn says so, then I take it back!’ Annael said cheerfully and he clapped Legolas on the shoulder. “We must organize an archery competition on our return,’ he added, grinning at Saeldir.

 

‘Indeed we must. Rhovanaegas has a reputation to defend.’ Saeldir whistled for the horses and after a moment they came trotting back. 

 

‘Ah, he is home on leave as well. He would have come with us otherwise.’

 

‘Then it is a good thing he did not,’ Annael was rubbing his hands gleefully for it was well known that he and Rhovanaegas, Imladris’ best archer were not good friends. “We can surprise him.’

 

Aragorn glanced wryly at the two who were already planning to wager, he was sure, upon Legolas. Having said that, he admitted, it was likely that if Amron got home first, he would have already thrown down a challenge to Rhovanaegas on Legolas’ behalf.

 

‘Come, we need to be on our way,’ Saeldir suddenly realised he was in charge. He swung up into his saddle while Annael helped Legolas up behind Aragorn. ‘You did that even whilst still injured!’ he declared. ‘What archers they must breed in Mirkwood!’

 

It said much to Aragorn that Legolas did not even bother to correct him but he leaned against Aragorn and did not speak.

 

‘Have you overdone it my friend?’ Aragorn whispered over his shoulder.

 

‘I forgot my injury, ‘Legolas said as quietly. ‘It will do no damage but it hurts like Thorin Oakenshield has kicked me in the bollocks.’

 

Aragorn shook his head half amused and half shocked. ‘Then you need to rest on your laurels and let others do the work,’ he said quietly over his shoulder. He felt the Elf nod.

 

 

0o0o0

 

Legolas felt better than he had since the dreadful night in Phellanthir and riding behind Aragorn was strangely comforting, He did not know how the Man had come to heal him, not fully. He had been feverish and overwrought, he knew, and in his dreams the poison was a many-headed creature, like a hydra, one of the strange water-creatures that lived in the lake to the south of the East Byte. But this one had been huge, man-sized and its thick black arms had wrestled with him until he was almost at the point of defeat when Aragorn had appeared in his dream and brought with him a sword named Crystôl. He frowned, thinking that he had been sure the drug Aragorn had agreed for him to take was also called Crystôl. No matter, he decided. If his mind was playing tricks on him, or if it were simply translating the healing into a narrative he could understand, the result was the same. He let the worries float away as Thalos had taught him and felt a momentary pang of homesickness.

 

He wondered what they were all doing at home. Winter would be drawing in and he wanted to be home for Yule- he had been in the East Bite for the past five Yule festivals, and he needed to recover from this poison sufficiently to travel home. The High Pass might well be closed to him, he realised with a shock. How would he get home? It bothered him that he had not taken care to send messages back with the Dwarves who were bound to ask for leave to take the Forest Road. They could have taken messages, he realised and he knew that Gimli’s father had already left Imladris and so he had missed his chance. At the time, though, he had thought to be traveling himself today at the latest. To his surprise he realised that he would have enjoyed travelling with Gimli but the Dwarf had already declared his intention was to accompany Frodo to Mordor, and Legolas had felt a mixture of admiration and regret at the news. And more selfishly, Legolas would be on his own. His heart sank at the thought of crossing the great mountains. And he did not know the way. Even if his horse was waiting for him near the High Pass instead of returning with Alagos and Galadhon, he would have to walk most of the way, he thought gloomily. 

 

Gradually he felt himself slump and suddenly his arm hurt, his nerves felt sore and limbs ached. A band of tension wrapped itself around his forehead and he had a hideous reminder of the snaking black tendrils that had strangled him, wrapped around his neck, smothered his mouth. He suddenly gasped for breath. 

 

‘Are you all right, Legolas?’ Aragorn turned his head towards him. 

Legolas was brought back to himself at the sound of the Man’s voice; he was here, behind Aragorn. He was safe. 

 

‘Yes,’ he said breathlessly at first, and then his arm throbbed and ached. He could feel the cut in his skin and the edges of the wound burn. And then added, ‘Everything hurts.’

 

After a while, Aragorn spoke again. ‘Do you wish to stop?’

 

Legolas shook his head first and then realized the Man could not see him so he said, ‘No,’ in a dull voice. And then he asked, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

 

He felt rather than saw Aragorn smile. ‘Not far...You sound like Pippin.’

 

Legolas did not know who Pippin was at first. ‘Pippin is one of the Hobbits,’ he realised.

 

‘Yes. He is the youngest and perhaps the most...’ Aragorn seemed to hesitate and then he said, ‘perhaps the most friendly,’ he finished. But it sounded a little lame to Legolas, as if that were not really what Aragorn meant. 

 

‘Why does that sound like Pippin?’ he asked frowning and thinking that asking if they were there yet was not indicative of being friendly.

 

‘He kept asking if we were there yet,’ replied Aragorn. He did not look back but kept his eyes trained on the clear path now that ran alongside the riverbank. Well used and well kept.

 

‘If you were where?’ Legolas was even more baffled. He wondered if there was a different meaning of the word friendly for Thalos had often told him that in different parts of Middle Earth even where Sindarin was spoken, some words had different meanings and there were different dialects. He found the Imladrian Sindarin odd sometimes and the accent rather more clipped than the Wood’s soft vowels and flattened consonants.

 

‘Imladris.’ 

 

‘That was surely because he did not know,’ Legolas said, frowning. Perhaps the word also meant curious in Westron. That would make more sense. Pippin was the most curious of the Hobbits, which is why he kept asking if they were in Imladris yet. 

 

‘True,’ said Aragorn. ‘But he knew how many leagues we had yet to travel. It was really because he was bored, and impatient, and tired. And hungry of course. Hobbits are always hungry.’ Aragorn had the sound of someone being patient now, thought Legolas. Perhaps in Imladris, the word for friendly also meant hungry as well as curious. Or perhaps the words had different meanings entirely and did not mean hungry or friendly or curious but some other word?

 

‘So are all Hobbits very friendly?’ he asked, thinking this would surely help him work out the two words,’ Or are they very hungry?’

 

In front of him, Aragorn scratched his head and glanced back over his shoulder, looking as puzzled as Legolas felt. ‘Both,’ he said succinctly.

 

‘Oh.’ So the words must mean the same thing, thought Legolas triumphantly. He pushed away the little nagging doubt in his mind because he couldn’t focus anymore and his head was beginning to pound. But it must have unlocked something for Aragorn too for he began to talk of Hobbits and it was easier to just be quiet and listen. He told Legolas about Samwise Gamgee and Merry, who was a Took. And Pippin was a Brandybuck. Legolas had no idea what this meant and did not have the energy to ask. Instead he resolved to ask the Hobbits themselves for he had to speak to Bilbo anyway to give his father’s greeting, which Thranduil would expect at the least. He wondered if, out of his father’s courtesy, he should offer to help Frodo but that seemed so arrogant he dismissed it out of hand.

 

‘It seems the Hobbits have been very brave,’ Legolas said, thinking of the abject terror he had felt on the Mountain when the Nazgûl had passed him by, and it wasn’t even hunting him. ‘To face the Nine, in the Wild and on your own...’

 

They rode on in silence for a moment until something struck Legolas. ‘Will you go with Frodo? To Mordor?’

 

Aragorn was very quiet for a moment and then he simply said, ‘Yes. That is my destiny.’

 

‘Oh,’ said Legolas again. He thought about it while they plodded along easily, Roheryn’s great hoofs never faltered.

 

After a while he asked, ‘Is it your destiny to go with…it, then. Because of Isildur?’

 

Aragorn shifted round so he could see him. ‘No...It is what Elrond has asked of me to win Arwen’s hand. I must reclaim my throne.’

 

‘Oh,’ said Legolas and this time he thought he understood. ‘So you go south to reclaim your kingdom,’ he said nodding wisely. ‘But why did you have to wait until now?’ he spoke as the thought occurred to him and he felt Aragorn shift impatiently.

 

‘It wasn’t the right time.’

 

‘Ah,’ said Legolas.

 

‘I suppose I am not looking forward to it,’ Aragorn said and Legolas understood that all too well. ‘I was in Gondor a long time ago. I fought in her army and alongside Boromir’s father who is Denethor and now the Steward of Gondor...’ He paused and Legolas thought that perhaps that had been hard to do .

 

‘What did he think of the Heir of Isildur fighting alongside him and the real heir to the throne?’

 

Aragorn was silent and Legolas guessed he had not actually told the Steward. Otherwise why was he not the King now? But he did not say this for he had become fond of the Man and thought him courageous. Besides, did he not owe his life to Aragorn?

 

‘I suppose that would have been hard on him,’ Legolas said kindly and when Aragorn shifted slightly and grunted, he added, ‘I know that you would have shone. He could only feel wonder at you, and awe. Perhaps he knew anyway. And the time was not right...’ He frowned. He was babbling again. It seemed that the closer he got to Imladris, the more of a fool he became and the further from it, the more himself he felt. I will keep quiet, he told himself. I will get this wound checked and then make my farewells and leave. The thought of crossing the Mountains on his own suddenly seemed less daunting than the Hall of Fire and the huge dining hall filled with strange folk. And Berensul. 

 

Roheryn plodded along behind the two quick elven steeds but his stride was so long that he kept up fairly easily and anyway, he expected them to wait rather than he catch up and Aragorn seemed to be in no rush to get back either.

 

Legolas leaned slightly against Aragorn and listened to Roheryn’s calm and steady Song; warmth and sunshine in sleepy meadows, flicking flies away with his long tail and letting his eyes half close dozing in the sun. Legolas smiled; he knew Aragorn needed the safe steady pace of Roheryn rather than the prancing dizziness of the two elven steeds. He let his cheek rest on the Man’s shoulder for he felt sleepy too listening to the Song...He thought too that they were entering the Valley’s environs and the air changed, it felt softer, warmer, safer. There were no Orcs, no Nazgûl. They were safe. One more march and they would be in Imladris.

 

It was an amicable little company, he decided. When they made camp, Annael was lively and animated, asking Legolas questions about Mirkwood, about the warriors, the training, who the greatest warrior in Mirkwood was and was suitably impressed when Legolas said my father. That prompted even more speculation and questions and Legolas was able to dispel a good number of myths about both ‘Mirkwood’ and its King.

 

Neither Saeldir nor Annael were the cooks that Amron was however and Legolas, never a fussy eater having dined in Galion’s kitchen all his life, looked doubtfully at the plate of dried overcooked meat on his plate. Still, he was in good company and whilst he was still weak from the poison and the healing, his head was clearer. His senses were overly sharp still and he jumped at every sound in spite of his woodcraft.

When finally they lay down to sleep, Saeldir took first watch, Aragorn second and Annael third. Legolas was spared for he was still recovering and in his heart, he knew this was right. But he was still a little nervous about sleeping because he knew the dreams of Rhawion were vivid and strong and the Elf’s voice called out to him. Erestor and Glorfindel are on their way, he told himself sternly, imagining Laersul’s voice was telling him this. And he settled himself on the ground and finally slipped onto the dream paths and dreamed. It was not of Rhawion. No. Indeed he dreamt deeply, lustfully... of steel grey eyes fixed upon him with breath-taking desire, hot as iron from the forge, molten with lust and passion that melted him and he felt himself swell.

 

He awoke to find himself hard as a rock and desperately uncomfortable. He glanced over at Saeldir who slept nearby and Annael who was fast asleep. Aragorn stood watch. He would have to be very quiet. 

 

His hand strayed to caress himself and he let his head fall back onto the roll of his clothes that served as a pillow...It was Elrohir he had been dreaming of, he realised with shock; Elrohir, furious and hot with anger. He remembered how the Peredhel had stood over him shouting obscenities and his fists clenched so hard that Legolas really thought he might draw a weapon, or punch him...But now there was distance between them, he thought Elrohir had been magnificent and how terrible an enemy he would be, but oh, how great an ally, a friend...how glorious a lover...

 

Then he shook his head at himself and grinned. What was he thinking? It was unlikely he would ever see Elrohir again...He stifled a moan and closed his eyes. His rod hurt it was so full. A drop leaked and slid down his hot skin and he had to touch himself, bit his lip.

 

‘The poison has that effect too,’ a dry voice spoke nearby and Legolas’ eyes flew open and found the cool, amused Man watching. 

 

Legolas screwed up his face in embarrassment and then opened one eye, cocked his gaze at Aragorn. ‘I don’t suppose you...’

 

‘No! Whatever it is, the answer is definitely no.’ The speed of Aragorn’s reply was almost insulting, thought Legolas, not quite offended but certainly amused. He noticed that Aragorn turned away but he did not blush. He filed that away for later perusal because he was interested in the Man, liked him and still wanted to redeem himself in Aragorn’s eyes for the loss of Gollum. Of course this would not help, he told himself, but he could hardly help it if the poison had this unexpected side effect. He wondered if it had ever been used as an aphrodisiac.

 

‘I was going to ask if you would mind...’ 

 

‘I would.’

‘...if I went beyond the camp to relieve myself,’ Legolas finished in spite if the interruption.

‘Oh.’ The relief on Aragorn’s face was almost comical and Legolas glanced down at his own rigid cock that tented the thin blanket. ‘I do not think you should go out there on your own.’

Legolas smiled mischievously and threw it back unashamed and unmistakably hard as iron. ‘Are you coming with me then?’

Aragorn laughed easily then and stirred the fire so the embers sparked and glowed orange. ‘No. Tempting as it is, I think not.’ He smiled.

 

‘I will be very quiet,’ he said reassuringly and Aragorn turned back to look up at the sky, studiously avoiding watching Legolas where he went. Neither Saeldir nor Annael stirred.

 

Even from this short distance away, he heard the deep, slow breaths of the two Elves fast asleep and the steady breath of Aragorn, watchful and waiting. He found a secluded place near enough to the camp so he could hear and be heard if he cried for help, but far enough away that he could not been seen or easily heard himself. He stroked his hand once more over his cock and felt it bulge and strain.

He conjured up an image of Berensul but found that a sterile image now though the Elf had been skilled and inventive. Legolas had learned several things he had not known before...he sighed in frustration. 

Glorfindel then... the image of Glorfindel still wet from the river, long hair dark gold, streaming down his strong, broad back, muscles flexing as he threw his shirt over the branches...oh Eru, Legolas gasped, imagining the Elf-lord turning to him and lifting his hand to Legolas’ face...

 

But he could not go beyond that. It felt horribly voyeuristic and he could not bring himself to imagine touching, kissing Glorfindel. He was too much in awe, still. He sighed. Well, Elrond then...no. That was like imagining his father! Erestor though...Erestor was nothing like anyone he had ever met...predatory, unashamedly sexual. The kiss he had taken from Legolas had been firm, assertive. He touched his mouth and his lips tingled at the memory. Erestor would be powerful, passionate, dominant....Quickly he moved his hand and focused on the long black hair, broad swordsman’s shoulders, hands that would grip and clench over his own biceps, grip him hard, lips that would press against his, forcing his mouth open, standing above him, cock hard and needy and demanding, grey eyes furious, passionate, lustful... 

 

...but it was Elrohir he saw and he blinked, distracted and aroused. It was Elrohir he imagined leaning against him, pressing him into the ground, and pushing his tongue as deeply as he could, wanting to fill, to plunge into his mouth and Legolas saw himself willingly opening for him, sucking him in, tongue pushing back. Elrohir plunging downwards, raking into Legolas’ body, wrestling him to the ground and stripping him bare. Legolas saw himself sprawled beneath Elrohir in disgraceful abandon, wantonly subdued and Elrohir himself plunging into him. 

 

Legolas felt heat charging along his length and felt the charging, speeding, churning in his balls. Heat sped through him. Legolas threw his head back and his body convulsed, jerked and a soaring ecstasy took him, wiped everything from his mind. He jerked in rigid ecstasy, head thrown back and mouth open... a sudden rush of hot liquid spurted over his hand and he was rigid...His body shuddered in its final throws of orgasm and slowly, slowly, his fist unclenched. He breathed and let the images play a little in his mind and let each go, one by one, a little confused, puzzled that it was Elrohir who had caused such ecstasy and desire; an Elf who despised him and assaulted him. He had not felt any desire when Elrohir had ridden with them, not with Glorfindel there, blinding him to everything else....He bit his lip for a second and then carefully wiped his hand clean on the scrubby grass.

 

When he returned to camp, Aragorn nodded and smiled, but said nothing and Legolas quickly wrapped himself in his blanket. 

 

He slept more soundly then and his dreams took him pattering lightly over the forest floor, softened by pine needles and then by the russet and gold leaves of the autumnal oak and beech. The sunlight glimmered through the trees, a green-gold light that bathed him in warmth and light. He felt like laughing, like climbing into the trees and running through the canopy. He followed the white deer in their leaping flight through the forest....

 

When he awoke, it was past sunrise and the camp was astir. Aragorn was nowhere in sight and he shoved his blanket away and struggled to sit up. He leaned back on one elbow and pushed back his hair. He felt better than he had yesterday and he thought it must be that they were within the bounds of Imladris perhaps and clearly some great magic protected the Valley. He thought of the great Song he had been caught up in, the swirling air and wind.

 

‘Did you sleep well?’ Saeldir asked and Legolas thought he detected something in his tone. He glanced up to see the Elf looking at him, scrutinizing him intently.

 

He felt heat washing up his neck and face. Had Saeldir seen him last night? In the Wood no one would think anything of it, but here in Imladris, where things were more buttoned down and hidden. Perhaps it was a taboo? Although Aragorn had not been shocked...He had heard Erestor too, telling Annael and Saeldir how they had found Aragorn lying above Legolas like they had been... He felt himself blush still further at the memory of Erestor’s crude words. No wonder Saeldir looked at him oddly. Legolas pulled his shirt over his head and then dragged his boots towards him. Shoving one foot in one boot and then pulled on the other, he rose carefully to his feet for in spite of his feeling of wellness, his head was still muzzy and he felt weak. 

 

‘One more day’s ride and we will be sleeping in our own bed,’ Annael said cheerfully. He was light and easy company, more like Amron, whom Legolas missed he realised and hoped that Amron and Gimli were safe. 

 

Annael dropped bread and hard cheese into his lap and then tossed an apple over to him as well. He caught it one handed and bit into it so the sweet juice dribbled down his chin and he laughed and wiped his chin with his hand. He saw Saeldir looking at him speculatively and was again, confused by the look, but thought no more of it and finishing the apple, tossed it far from the camp for the birds and insects to feed upon.

 

Then he rose and went down to the river to wash away the sleep and fuzziness. Aragorn was already there, watering the horses and Roheryn raised his dripping muzzle and gave a soft whicker of greeting.

 

But it was not only Legolas the horse greeted. Along the ridge and slowly coming towards them, were four or five horses. One of them carried two riders, one rider was short enough to be a child, and another horse seemed at first to be riderless until they drew close and Legolas saw that the last horse bore what appeared to be something laid over its back.

 

Amron and Gimli were bringing Rhawion’s body home to Imladris.

 

Tbc


	22. Rivendell

Khuzdül translations:

 

iglishmêk - gesture language of the Dwarves.

 

Mazarbul-aglâb - (literally telling of the records) The telling of tales of the deceased, to record their lives and deeds.

 

Uzbad-Kibilulbizar - Lord of Rivendell (Valley of Silver Streams and Running Water. )

 

Khazâd ai-meir zenen - The Dwarves will stand with you. 

 

Thank you to everyone who reviews- it is soooo important and encouraging.

 

Chapter 22: Rivendell

 

Gimli hated horses. It didn’t matter how much Amron told him to sit still and not wriggle, he found them uncomfortable and could not help it. Although, he told himself, it would take much more than this great height and lump of horse to frighten a Dwarf-Lord of Erebor, Master Smith of the Guild of Steel, Gimli Iron-Hammer. Nevertheless he prayed; his fingers tapping out the minute gestures of the iglishmêk that both his friends might soon return and be safe, and that his own feet might tread the Earth sooner rather than later.

 

So when two elven steeds appeared from between the trees, followed by Aragorn’s big grey beast who danced less than surged powerfully into view, Gimli was delighted. He could see Aragorn had seen them and said something to the other pale-haired rider behind him. Legolas lifted his head to follow the Man’s pointing finger. 

 

‘Both of them are well,’ Amron said over his shoulder, grinning as widely as Gimli himself. When Legolas too lifted his hand to wave and Gimli felt a gladness sweep over him that Legolas was recovered. It hit him quite unexpectedly that he thought of Legolas as his friend. He sighed heavily; he would have to be careful when his father was around, he thought to himself, although even Gloin agreed that Thranduil had spoken fair at Thorin’s grave.

 

He did not say this however, instead he shouted gruffly, ‘Well about time too! We have been waiting for you to catch up.’

 

The two Elves who rode with Aragorn and Legolas looked oddly at Gimli but they were Elves and who knew what they thought. Aragorn was laughing though and Legolas looked certainly better than the last time Gimli had seen him.

 

‘Ah laddie,’ Gimli muttered to himself, ‘you gave us a turn.’ 

 

The Elves called muted greetings to each other and to Aragorn, but Gimli watched Legolas for there was no escaping that this was Rhawion’s journey home too and even as Gimli thought this, Legolas caught sight of the body that lay over the withers of one of the horses

 

Any colour he did have drained away and he swayed slightly behind Aragorn. 

 

‘Do not fret, Legolas,’ said Gimli quietly, knowing the Elf would hear him. ‘He is safe here with us, and we are taking him home.’ Amron brought his own horse alongside Aragorn and Gimli was able to reach out and touch Legolas’ elbow.

 

At his touch, Legolas looked at Gimli and said softly, ‘I know, Gimli. I know. I was very sick. I had such dreams...I know they were not real now.’

 

Gimli narrowed his eyes at the Elf and said shrewdly, ‘Do you expect me to believe that? And where then, are Glorfindel and Erestor?’

 

Legolas blinked at him owlishly and had the situation not been so sad, Gimli would have laughed. But Legolas’ gaze drifted back to the sorry burden wrapped tenderly in Gimli’s own blanket and carried by the last horse. Legolas passed his hand over his eyes then, avoiding looking at anyone and said softly and in distress, ‘I am sorry, Gimli. I am still confused...I think it is all the sere-vanda and Crystôl,’

 

Furious, Gimli glared at Aragorn. ‘I hope he does not mean that you have forced yet more drugs into him? When I told you no?’ He could hardly believe that Aragorn, whom he thought quite a sensible person for a Man, could have been so reckless.

 

Aragorn turned his head to face Gimli. ‘I did what I thought was right,’ he said. ‘You were not there, Gimli, I had no choice. And it worked,’ he added defensively. 

 

‘Aragorn!’ Amron turned to look accusingly at Aragorn as well now. ‘Surely you did not give him a second Crystôl? Glorfindel told you that you should not.’ Amron’s horse shied and bumped against Roheryn. 

 

‘Gimli, Amron. He did not...’ said Legolas. ‘Well, he did,’ he amended, frowning and then continued, ‘but I attacked him first and he had to restrain me...I think. I can’t remember,’ Legolas put his hands over his face. It could have been because he was confused, Gimli thought later but at the time, he thought that Legolas must have been hurt and reached over to him.

 

Amron waved his free hand, gesticulating angrily and had lapsed into Sindarin, which Gimli could not follow. Out of the corner of his eye Gimli saw that the other Elves had turned and watched, appalled as Amron’s horse jostled against Roheryn. 

 

Saeldir rode up to them, shouting. ‘Cease this, all of you! We have Rhawion’s body with us and we are entering the peace of Imladris!’ 

 

At that they fell silent, ashamed, and Gimli hung his head. It was indeed unforgivable to show such discourtesy and disrespect to their comrade.

 

‘My lord Gimli,’ Saeldir said more quietly and firmly, ‘I assure you that Annael and I saw no harm done to Legolas. Indeed he is remarkably recovered since it was with lach-rhaw that he was poisoned.’

 

Gimli nodded in acknowledgement and although he always tried to meet an elven gaze full on, refusing to be cowed, this time he avoided looking at Saeldir, ashamed that he had allowed himself to show such disrespect albeit from concern. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said, allowing himself to be appeased. ‘He is quite useful when he is well,’ he added with grudging fondness. Legolas gave a soft laugh and Gimli looked up into his leaf-green eyes and smiled. But Gimli was not fooled and he saw how pale Legolas was and noted that he cradled his injured arm.

 

Annael had ridden up as well then. ‘I can testify to his strength as well, my lord Gimli. He made a terrific shot onto a ridge where a spy lurked.’

 

Coldly, Gimli turned to Saeldir then. ‘Do you mean he had to use that arm when he is injured? Neither of you could do anything?’ 

 

Saeldir glanced irritably at Annael who shifted a bit. ‘He was closer,’ said Annael, glancing at Saeldir uncomfortably. Gimli was unconvinced and opened his mouth, determined to uncover the truth when Legolas spoke.

 

‘Peace Gimli,’ he said softly. ‘We were under threat. A goblin spy watched the road and I killed it.’ He leaned across from where he sat behind Aragorn and touched Gimli’s arm as Gimli had touched Legolas’ when they first arrived. Gimli looked into the Elf’s eyes and had the strangest sense then; it seemed to him he could be in the forge with the smell of hot iron and the heartbeat of bellows on the furnace. He felt the song of metal under the hammer and then, softly at first, deeper than the sounds of the world, came the deep Song of the Mountain...He stared into leaf-green eyes and wondered how it was that the son of Thranduil understood so well...

 

The horse danced a little under Gimli as if it too heard the song and was excited, and he suddenly lurched to one side and clutched at Amron. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I will leave it this time. But next time, Aragorn, you will have me to answer to!’ Then he turned his earth-brown eyes upon Legolas and added, ‘And don’t think you can count the goblin spy. I still lead you by three.’

 

 

0o0o

 

The following day they drew within sight of the Old Ford and knew they were within the environs of Imladris. Gradually they drew closer to the Last House. Looking up, Aragorn saw the young birch tree clinging to the cliffs and remembered that Legolas too had delighted in it on their journey out. It had pleased Aragorn at the time that someone else had seen it for Aragorn had noticed it on his return from Lórien the first time he had met Arwen, and now looked for it every time he returned to Imladris. Gradually it had taken on a new symbolism. Yet Legolas said nothing. The horse with Rhawion’s body draped over it walked close by and he noticed the way Legolas listed slightly towards it whenever it came close. 

 

The river rushed past them, its grey and white melt-water fast moving like a long sinuous beast, pouring over great slabs of granite that had fallen from the mountains over the Ages, plunging over weirs and falls on its way to the Sea. The roar of its cold water was loud, drowning out their conversation and heralding their approach to the Valley.

 

He always felt a knot in his belly as they approached the final bend in the road that ran smoothly alongside the Bruinen, knowing that in a moment he would see the towers and roofs of Imladris. His eye always sought out the windows of Arwen’s rooms, hoping wildly that she sensed his approach and would be standing, waiting for him, the breeze lifting her lustrous dark hair and her lovely eyes fixed upon the road hoping for him as he longed for her. But it was always too far for him to see so he imagined it anyway, and a small smile slipped onto his lips.

 

‘Are you dreaming of your lady Arwen?’ Legolas asked and Aragorn heard the smile in his voice.

 

He nodded slightly and half turned his head . ‘I always hope to see her on her balcony, waiting for me,’ he said, hoping that Legolas could see and would tell him. But the Elf only nodded and did not oblige.

 

‘I always hope to see my brothers when I go home, unless they are out in the Wood fighting. Even then, I hope for some sign that they are safe,’ Legolas replied conversationally. ‘My father is always there waiting. Hopping from foot to foot in anxiety! And Galion,’ he continued.

 

Aragorn gave a quiet laugh; he could imagine Pippin maybe hopping from one foot to the other in excitement, but not Thranduil-- elegant, enigmatic Thranduil, whose gaze alone was enough to wither the heart of a lesser man. 

 

As if he knew Aragorn’s thoughts, Legolas added, ‘Ah, well maybe not Thranduil - but Galion. My father’s embrace is like a bear’s.’

 

Yes, thought Aragorn, that he could imagine. 

 

Legolas fell silent then, thinking no doubt on his home, his father and brothers. Aragorn wondered if he was worried about the two companions that Legolas had set out with from Mirkwood. Surely they must have arrived back by now? He wondered how Thranduil would greet them and grimaced, glad he was not in their shoes.

 

‘Ah!’ Aragorn felt Legolas lift up his head as he exclaimed. ‘She is there I think. I see a maiden with long dark hair and her white dress gleams. She has a cloak of deep green. She waits for you I think for she shades her eyes with her hand and watches the road.’ 

 

Aragorn’s heart leapt. Arwen! He knew the cloak of which Legolas spoke- he had brought it all the way from Pelargir in foolish love as a gift for her, luxurious velvet silk that he had had to work hard to save from spoiling on his journey across mountain and river. He strained to see but it was still too far. He could hear the smile in Legolas’ voice. 

 

‘The sun catches her as if it loves her. But I think there is nothing that could love her more than do you, Aragorn.’

 

Aragorn imagined her, as Legolas said, standing on her balcony, the breeze lifting her hair. His heart pounded and he felt his chest swell with love for this lovely woman who had given him her heart, her love, her immortal life...and there was the rub. Her immortal life.

 

He bowed his head. It was too much. He could not ask it of her. He felt that now familiar sense of heaviness dragging his heart into his belly and churning up misery. How could he have let this happen? How was he to change anything?

 

Slowly he became aware of a low melody, a harmony of sounds that could not strictly be called a song because there were no words he could hear at first and then he heard the whisper of the wind winding through mallorn trees with their leaves of gold, and beneath his feet the turf was scattered with white flowers. A nightingale sang its liquid notes somewhere ahead and then he saw her, a maiden dancing on the green sward. His heart caught and he wished he could stay in that moment forever...Beren to Luthien...

 

He closed his eyes and let Roheryn find his way, and felt the stillness of Legolas at his back. So quiet was he singing that it was almost unheard, almost part of the rushing of the river, the birds song, the steady heartbeat of his companion...

 

...He saw there mirrored shimmering.

Tinuviel the elven-fair,

Immortal maiden elven-wise,

About him cast her shadowy hair...

 

As if he felt Aragorn’s attention, Legolas changed from singing softly to humming quietly under his breath so it was part of the sounds of the Valley.

 

‘I have never liked the ending until now,’ Legolas said softly. ‘It seemed so unfair that they both should take the Path of Men, but I see now how it is not sad at all, but a fair ending. For she loved him beyond all else and she could not be parted from him.’

 

‘It was too much,’ Aragorn said.

 

‘It was love. Such a love I have not yet known, but I hope to still. One day. Imagine someone loving you so much they would give up everything because the idea of being in the world and you not there is so unbearable. Would you not give that person the same love? Would you not wish for them to never be parted?’

 

‘You would wish they had never laid eyes on you,’ Aragorn said bitterly. How many times had he had this same conversation with himself in the empty nights in the Wild? How many times had he imagined Arwen, alone, laying herself down somewhere to fade and die? Ah, he could not bear it! He squeezed his eyes closed against his own imaginings and could not blame Elrond for his confusion of love and hated for the Man he had raised as his own and who, like a viper, had turned upon him.

 

‘Elves do not give their hearts so lightly,’ Legolas said matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing the weather. ‘In the Wood we say that the heart knows its Other Self, and when it knows, the Song is complete in your heart.’ He laid his hand lightly on Aragorn’s shoulder and hummed a little. ‘Arwen’s Other Self is very untidy,’ he observed. ‘It does not comb its hair and this,’ he tugged gently at Aragorn’s beard, ‘must scratch or tickle her nose and make her sneeze.’ 

 

Aragorn found an astonished snort escape him and he could not help the burst of laughter at the irreverent and unexpected response but he was becoming accustomed to the Mirkwood way of looking at things; a strange blend of intense ferocity and mischief. Aragorn had never quite met anyone like Legolas although he knew plenty of Silvan Elves in Lothlorien, and there were Sindar in Imladris of course. But he had spent only a few nights in Mirkwood and had slept for the most part. Thranduil’s Elves had kept their distance, and although courteous enough, it was clear that Thranduil did not wish to know more of Men or of Elrond’s kin. He had only asked about Glorfindel and that fleetingly and in nonchalant manner. It had been his eldest son who was most at pains to welcome Aragorn and make him comfortable.

 

Legolas hummed quietly, but a sadder song now, and he leaned his cheek against Aragorn’s shoulder and rested. 

 

It was not long before they were clattering over the stone bridge that arced across the Bruinen and the silvery road glimmered before them and disappeared into the First Homely House West of the Hithaeglir. Home.

 

Elrond was standing on the sweep of steps waiting for them and Aragorn’s heart leapt again when he saw Arwen hovering uncertainly behind him; she knew what it cost her beloved father to see them together, but she could not keep away. Their eyes met and his heart swelled again, like a tide in his chest and smothered the smile that wanted to burst from him for the mood of the crowd was not one of joy or welcome; it was somber and full of grief. There were many Elves gathered and when they saw the horse with its burden of Rhawion’s body, there were cries of distress. 

 

The horses clattered to a halt and Amron pulled the last horse forwards with its sad burden. Straight away, two Elves were there, reaching up and gently pulling Rhawion’s body from the horse. A murmur followed them as carefully they carried Rhawion to Elrond first who gazed in sorrow. Arwen too lifted her hand to her mouth in shock and Aragorn wanted to go to her and gather her in his arms. 

 

Aragorn felt Legolas shift then and he turned to help the Elf slide carefully down from Roheryn and stand beside the horse. Aragorn dismounted then and noted that Legolas held onto the stirrup leather as if for support.

 

Elrond stepped forward and looked in great sorrow upon Rhawion’s body. ‘Let us bring our dear friend, Rhawion, son of Nathron and husband to Tharlimm. Our brother, Rhawion, has given his life that we may live in safety and in peace. Bring him home, my friends.’ Elrond’s deep, comforting voice took on a power that seemed to reach beneath their sorrow, to kindle something deep, beyond reason in their hearts and Aragorn felt a deep compassion caress him for a moment as though his father’s hand stroked his hair back from his face, and held him close. He felt the tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and blinked hard although some of the Elves stood weeping unashamedly while others were stoney-faced and still.

 

Amron dismounted and stood beside Rhawion’s body, his hand reaching out to touch it lightly and his fair face wrenched with grief.

 

‘He went into the Tower of Phellanthir, my lord, and there was set upon by the Nazgûl which called upon Orcs to protect it. He was killed in duty, my lord.’

 

Legolas hung his head and stepped forwards then, a little unsteadily. ‘I was with him when he was slain, my lord.’

 

There was a murmur from the crowd, and Aragorn saw that Gimli stood near Legolas and watched stonily. Then the Dwarf stepped forwards so he stood beside Legolas, his mail hood pulled down so his copper-wire hair gleamed in the weak sunlight. ‘My lord Elrond, I commend Rhawion of Imladris. He was a brave warrior, a good comrade. And I saw Legolas bring him out though it almost cost him his own life.’

 

Elrond’s eyes were focused and intent upon Gimli for a moment. Then he reached down and clasped Gimli’s shoulder. ‘His name will be written alongside yours, Gimli Gloinsson, in the Mazarbul-aglâb and yours, Legolas Thranduillion. Rhawion Nathronion will stand with you in the Dagor Dagorath.’ 

 

Gimli raised his head proudly. He clenched his fist and struck his chest with fierce eyes. ‘Uzbad-Kibilulbizar,’ he said in his rich voice. ‘Khazâd ai-meir zenen.’ But Legolas simply gazed at the wrapped bundle that was Rhawion’s body in abject misery.

 

Aragorn saw that Legolas swayed a little and he stepped beside the grieving Elf and steadied him. For a moment Dwarf, Elf and Man stood together and Aragorn saw Elrond stare at them, startled as if struck, and then abruptly he turned away and motioned for Rhawion to be brought into the Last House. Arwen shot him a stunned and compassionate look before she too swept away in her father’s wake.

 

Amron followed and Legolas began to follow close behind though Aragorn thought he looked ready to fall. He reached out and caught Legolas’ arm gently and held him back but when the Elf turned to him, there was such terrible misery in his eyes that Aragorn paused. 

 

‘You do not have to go with them,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Elrond will take him to his family, and Amron will tell them what happened.’

 

‘I do have to go. Only I was there when he died. Only I can tell them what happened. And I need to....’ He stopped, and bowed his head.

 

‘To what?’ Aragorn turned to face Legolas but the Elf looked down at his feet and pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve. Gently, Aragorn caught his hand and stilled him. ‘Do you mean you still think you left him there? Is that what you are going to tell them? That your hideous dream is real and that Rhawion is trapped in there with no hope of release?’

 

‘No...’ Legolas looked up then and his fair face was distressed. ‘No...’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘But they will know surely? I thought I might say that Erestor and Glorfindel are going to find him and let him come home.’ He looked down as Gimli stepped between them and patted his arm.

 

‘No, not yet, my poor friend,’ Gimli’s voice was gentle as Aragorn. ‘Now is not the time for them to hear this tale. Let them grieve a little first, Legolas. And then you may go and tell them what they will then want to hear.’

 

Legolas paused and then looked down at Gimli. His shoulders were slumped and he closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I will not be a coward and shirk my duty.’

 

‘It is not a cowardly act to spare them a moment longer. It is a kindness,’ Gimli said with impossible gentleness, and his earth-brown eyes were so compassionate that Legolas had to look away and blink. Gimli patted his arm. ‘Now, we do need to check the dressing on that or something I seem to remember. Whenever I have been wounded, the blasted healers always want to prod and poke at you until you are strong enough to hit them...’ His voice rumbled soothingly and he glanced at Aragorn and nodded reassuringly. Almost without Legolas realising it, they walked beside Legolas, one on either side and although they did not need to steady him, they were there to steer him up the spiraling staircase and in through the open door of the Last House. 

 

Ahead of them the wide, elegant stairs wound upwards, sweeping up onto the first floor and along the open hallways, beneath the arching windows that were flung open to the skies and swift wind and sunlight. The Healing Wards were close by and Aragorn guided his new friends into the light-filled chambers where a young woman, whom he knew slightly, approached and took one look at Legolas, then she frowned and led him quietly away into the hushed rooms. He followed her meekly, head bowed and steps slow and faltering, but he walked on his own nevertheless, which Aragorn had feared, only days ago, that he might never do again.

 

 

0o0o

 

 

He waited for her on the bridge over the Bruinen, beyond the Walled Garden and above the waterfall. He knew she would come. And suddenly she was there, in his arms, her hair a cloud about him, fragrant, and her skin so soft it made him wondrous. Arwen buried her face in his shoulder and wordlessly found his mouth. They clung together for an age before she unravelled herself from him and pulled him away along the quiet and secluded paths above the River.

 

‘I have missed you,’ she said, and turned her face up to him. Aragorn laughed. 

 

‘I am glad,’ he said and then more tenderly, ‘I missed you as well. Even for such a short time as it was.’ For they had been parted long months, even years before now and it felt every bit as much as it did the longer times. ‘How will I be able to leave you?’

 

‘Do not speak of that now!’ she exclaimed and pulled him close. ‘I cannot bear it!’ He felt her softness against his own hard body, rounded where he was lean. He could not help himself when his hands drifted over that round softness, and when she gasped softly and leaned against him, he kissed her and she opened her mouth again and their passion ignited.

 

It was too much. He felt himself bulge and press against her and pulled back a little, laughing eyes wide. ‘We had better stop,’ he said a little breathily. ‘I am beyond desire.’

 

‘No,’ she nuzzled him demandingly, ‘why do you stop? We are betrothed.’

 

It was one of the things he found the most difficult. That his beautiful, pure Arwen wanted him and Valar knows, he wanted her, but he had resolved he would keep Elrond’s custom and respect, for he owed the Lord of Imladris more than just this- but it was one thing he could give and denying himself was penance. But when her hand squeezed him and kneaded his flesh, he had to catch her hand and stop her.

 

‘I will forget myself!’ he cautioned and stepped away, forcing back the wave of physical longing that being with her always brought. ‘We are promised, and we will obey the Laws and Customs.’ She almost pouted, he thought amused, but she was far too dignified and elegant for such things.

 

Arwen saw him smile and slapped him playfully. ‘Oh! You and your honour! I would have had us both bedded and wed in Lothlorien if I had had my way!’

 

“And living in The Angle, washing clothes in the Bruinen,’ he finished. She shook her head. It was a contention between them and Aragorn could feel it coming. 

 

‘My people survived the Helcaraxë and Gondolin on one hand, and Doriath, Sirion, Beleriand on the other. Do not tell me I cannot endure!’ she snapped. Aragorn ignored the sparks and instead stroked the softness of her hair, watching the lights in it shine. He could lose himself and all sense of time and place in her...He felt the silk of her hair float through his fingers, let his hand drift down her throat to her shoulder and he knew the skin of her breast was indescribably smooth, soft...

 

‘Are you listening to me, Dunádan?’ she asked sharply, but he knew her better and smiled.

 

‘Hm?’ He let his eyes stay on her hair, watched her lips as she spoke. And when she let out a small tut of irritation he smiled.

 

‘I do not dispute the hardiness of your blood,’ he said more seriously. ‘But you have never had to live like that. And I do not want you to. Your father has set me a condition and I will do all I can to keep it.’

 

‘Is my father’s will more important than mine? We could flee to Rohan, to Gondor, you could become Thorongil again. Denethor would welcome you...Or dwell in Bree, the Shire. We could live on the edges and have a cottage in the woods...’

 

‘You will suggest we return with Legolas and ask for Thranduil’s protection next!’ he laughed and winced as her eyes lit up.

 

‘Of course! Why did I not think of that! ‘

 

Then she laughed softly, shaking her head. Both knew they were playing now. 

 

Suddenly she became serious. ‘We have some time before you leave. Let us make sure we use it well.’ 

 

Resting her head on his shoulder, he felt her spirit bursting with love for him, as his did with her, and the sorrow that shaded her brightness. They walked through the gardens, hands entwined and her head against his shoulder and he told her of their journey and of the terrible tragedy that had befallen them. Arwen listened, as she always did without pity but with compassion, tenderness and love.

 

‘When next I leave here,’ he said, ‘it will be to accompany Frodo. And all our dreams and wishes stand or fall.’

 

‘When you leave with Frodo,’ Arwen said firmly, ‘it will be to defeat Sauron, and to restore the order of the world. You will lead your people back into greatness.’

 

 

0o0o

 

 

In the wide, airy rooms that were the Healing wards of Imladris, Legolas’ wound had been cleaned and dressed once more. 

 

‘Sleep is the best healer,’ the maiden had told him firmly and he recognised her from his first day in the kitchens where he thought the quiet girl had been a kitchen maid. She did not explain herself to him and he did not have the strength to ask. Instead he meekly took whatever was given him and left his clothes in a pile on a chair and pulled on a comfortable linen shift that tied up the sides and front, which was hardly befitting a warrior but he did not care.

 

‘My lord Elrond will be in to see you later.’ The girl did not smile but was serious and he thought he did not mind that he did not have to flirt and make her smile. It was restful. He lay between clean, fresh white sheets and slept deeply.

 

It was long past midnight when Legolas dreamed...

 

.....He found his feet did not move and yet he was rushing through the air like he was running. Ahead of him, the Tower was dark and forbidding. It had not been destroyed after all, he thought, looking up at it and feeling the flood of fear surge into his chest and belly at the thought of going back in there.

 

I have to.

 

Rhawion’s gaunt, pleading face floated before him, disembodied, ghostly. It was distorted, elongated, as if he looked into a pool and the surface of the water were disturbed. His mouth opened slowly and Legolas found himself with his hands over his ears and screaming as did Rhawion. A thin, high, piercing shriek....his skin was so cold, and the air seemed to fill him, blow through him, so he was afraid he might dissipate like mist....

 

The Tower was empty. Green lichen gleamed hungrily in the dark, luminous, and raindrops smattered on the cold grey stones. There was the guard room ahead of him...the dark seemed oily, almost oozed around him, slick, it pressed against his throat, his mouth...

 

His foot clattered against an old rusting sword that had fallen to the ground. He noticed his fingers were trembling when he picked it up and held it before him and the blade wavered. His hands were shaking he realised. It must be the Crystôl that Aragorn had given him; was it still working within him? Where was he anyway? Surely he was here, with Legolas?

 

A drift of cold air fingered through the damp tunnels and passages of the Tower. Ahead of him an eerie light glowed, green-ish. A distant sound...like weeping, a broken, dismal cry.

 

The nerves in his fingertips tingled and buzzed and he rubbed them together.

 

And then something shifted beside him. 

 

Cold. 

 

The hairs on his arm lifted and he dared not move for it might hear him. He slid his gaze sideways but the dark pressed upon his eyes. Something fluttered against his leg, something light, like wings, or a shroud. His heart gave a great thump and pounded in his chest and he could not move. 

 

...Nimir....

 

A word whispered through the dark, trailed off into the shadows which seemed to move and shift. Legolas turned but his movements were so slow, so slow. Yet he could hear his breath rasping loudly. It must hear him. His long pale hair lifted in the wind and a trail of cold could be felt on the back of his neck.

 

....So far from home? Why have you left the dark shadowed eaves of Agannâlo?

 

Cold breath on his ear, so cold it drove a freezing spike into his heart and he gasped.

 

...What is so important that Azgaâzir has let you, his dearest, come to Barîba-kadar? 

 

Legolas heard his breath gasping, his mouth was open trying to draw in huge lungfuls of air as if he had run a great distance very fast, but the air was so thin and he could not breathe. A tendril of darkness clung to his leg, slithered up to his hip, nosed its way between his thighs and he slapped at it with his hands in panic, in horror. The sword clattered to the ground; the sword! He had forgotten about the sword but it was on the ground and in the dark. He dropped to his knees and groped about in the dark. Something cold and metal met his hand and he gripped it. It gripped him back. 

 

He cried aloud and struggled against it. But the iron grip was deadly cold and held him still. The darkness moved, shifted like a shroud had been lifted, swept aside. Nothing. An empty hood. An empty shroud. Darkness that slid up between his thighs, wrapped around his waist, seized one hand and he was lifted upwards...a smell of old and empty tombs. Terror broke upon him... 

 

He struggled, panting in fear, from the drowning sleep, hearing a whimper some from somewhere that dimly, he realised was himself. 

 

Far off, an urgent voice called to him and a small, insistent hand tugged at him. ‘Wake up! Oh please, do wake up!’

 

Gasping, he struggled further up from the murky depths of the nightmare, and blinked through a haze to see a small face with very curly hair looking anxiously at him. At first he thought it must be a child of Men, and then a Dwarf-child... and then, finally he realised that although it was not Frodo, it was one of the Hobbits.

 

‘I am sorry...’ he said weakly. ‘I am sorry...I disturbed you...’

 

‘No, no not at all.’ The Hobbit seemed absurdly pleased that Legolas was awake now. ‘I was trying to wake you because you were having a horrible dream. Are you all right now? I tried to find someone but there was no one about and I dared not leave you. And I don’t know where Gimli has gone.’

 

‘Gimli?’ He wondered why Gimli was in the wards. Surely he had not been injured as well?

 

‘Yes- your Dwarf friend. He just left but I am sure he will be back soon. He didn’t want to leave you at all, but Neniel insisted.’

 

Legolas blinked slowly. The light hurt his eyes and he felt very confused. Gimli had watched over him? Of course he had. They had become friends, he realised and it gave him great comfort to think that.

 

‘Let me help you,’ the Hobbit was saying. ‘Do you want something?’ He picked up a jug of water in both hands for it was far too heavy for so small a hobbit and it wobbled dangerously as he tipped it forwards and water splashed out over the cup, spilled onto the chest and dripped onto the floor. Legolas put out a steadying hand and held it, helped him return it to the chest. Then he looked up at the Hobbit’s anxious face, concentrating carefully on placing the heavy jug back down, and smiled. 

 

‘Thank you,’ said the Hobbit turning back to Legolas. The Hobbit was small, his hair was curly and he had the brightest and most mischievous eyes. ‘Peregrine Took at your service,’ the Hobbit said, hand on his chest and bowing. ‘But everyone calls me Pippin.’

 

Ah. This was the Hobbit of whom Aragorn had spoken, and who Legolas himself resembled, according to Aragorn. Legolas frowned slightly, for he could see no resemblance whatsoever. But he nodded at Pippin for he could not bow from where he half-sat, half-lay. ‘Legolas Thranduillion,’ he replied. ‘Legolas,’ he added smiling.

 

‘I know who you are,’ Pippin said and hopped up onto Legolas’ bed familiarly. ‘I have heard them talking about you.’

 

Legolas glanced away, wondering what ‘they’ had been saying and after a moment he felt Pippin touch his hand gently.

 

‘Did you really go into that tower to fight the Nazgûl?’ he asked and his eyes were wide and admiring. ‘And that you brought back the body of that poor Elf that has been killed...’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Oh. I am sorry. My big mouth. It runs away with me, especially when I’m nervous, and I just say whatever comes into my head and it’s like I can’t stop....’ He waggled his feet and suddenly Legolas noticed how very big they were and how very hairy. His green eyes widened, he could not help it and stared. Though he had seen Bilbo of course, in fact had had a bone to pick with Bilbo for sneaking past him on at least one occasion, he had not really seen the Hobbit’s feet for most of the time he had been enveloped in an enormous cloak that Thranduil himself had taken from his own shoulders and wrapped around the shivering Hobbit the evening he had appeared with the Arkenstone. Legolas had been posted in Dale with Thalos at the end of the Battle...that was where the unfortunate incident with Bard’s daughters had happened. He shook his head to rid himself of the hot embarrassment that crept between his shoulder blades. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Focus on Pippin. And his feet!

 

Pippin was looking at him and he was looking at Pippin’s feet. Staring. Pippin wriggled his toes. 

 

‘They are my best feature,’ the Hobbit said, blushing modestly.

 

‘I can see. They are...’ Legolas thought for a moment. ‘Very hairy...’ he ventured hopefully. And it seemed he had chosen exactly the right word because Pippin gave a wide, cheery smile. He wriggled his toes proudly.

 

‘They are indeed! I soak them in nettles and cider vinegar,’ he confided and then leaned back, nodding. ‘It stimulates the hair follicles,’ he said brightly and then he looked at Legolas critically. ‘I could make some up for you, you know.’

 

‘Oh.’ Legolas thought quickly. ‘I think Elves might be allergic to nettles,’ he said.

 

‘Ah, well I’ll let you into a secret,’ Pippin leaned forwards and whispered. ‘It’s not the nettles. There’s a secret ingredient. Old Bullroarer Took invented it - but I’ll bring you some.’ Pippin glanced down at Legolas’ chest pityingly. ‘It will put hairs on your chest and toes!’

 

Legolas looked down at his chest in horror, and then back up at the Hobbit who was smiling indulgently.

 

Luckily he did not have to think of a further excuse because there was a rumbling beyond the door and both turned to see Gimli push it open, closely followed by Gandalf. 

 

‘Ah! I see you have met,’ The Wizard nodded and stood looking down on them both. ‘Well, what mischief have you got yourself into, m’boy?’

 

‘I was just...’ said Pippin and the Wizard’s piercing blue eyes swung towards him. ‘I was just helping Legolas,’ Pippin finished lamely.

 

‘I think he meant me,’ Legolas said quietly and looked up at Gandalf. 

 

‘I did indeed,’ Gandalf said kindly. ‘Pippin, go along now and see where Merry has got to. Frodo is coming down here so he can be amongst other people for a little. `He is bored stuck up there in that room on his own.’ The Wizard gave a quick look at Gimli and then at Legolas and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that funny way that mortals did, although Legolas knew Gandalf was no mortal Man.

 

Pippin scrambled quickly from the bed and flashed a cheeky smile at Legolas. ‘I will visit again if you like.’ Then he gave an enormous and exaggerated wink. ‘And I’ll bring something... you know... hairs on the chest and all.’

 

Legolas tried not to let his face show how he felt but Gimli snorted. ‘Aye! Whatever it is, he needs it, Pippin. Like a child he is. He might even grow a little beard.’

 

‘Thank you for your concern,’ Legolas replied stiffly. ‘But I am quite happy being beardless. Elves should not have hairy chests or... with great respect to your own beard, Gimli, and your toes, Pippin, we do not have hair on our chins or our toes or our chests.. It would be not be ...’ He was going to say dignified but thought better of it when he saw Gandalf’s raised eyebrows. ‘Elvish,’ he finished lamely.

 

‘I think we will finish this conversation here,’ Gandalf said, his blue eyes amused. ‘Pippin, off you go. Gimli and I will keep Legolas company for a little while. Merry needs you so you had better run.’

 

‘Very well Gandalf,’ Pippin said meekly and Legolas was unconvinced for he saw a kindred spirit in Pippin and hoped the Hobbit would come back, even if it was with nettles and cider. He thought he would not bathe his feet but might wash his hair in it for he was rather vain about his hair, as all Elves were.

 

Gandalf shoved his grey robes over his arm and he dropped into a nearby chair. He no longer wore his hat and his hair was luxurious and silky, Legolas realised with a start. Perhaps the Wizard had the secret Took brew, he mused idly. Gimli plonked himself at the end of the bed.

 

Stroking one hand over his beard, Gandalf watched Legolas thoughtfully. ‘Now. Why don’t you tell me what happened, Legolas? Start with arriving at the Tower and what made you go there in the first place.’

 

Legolas looked away for a moment, feeling torn between wanting to tell Gandalf the truth as he would his father, and wanting to protect Rhawion’s reputation that he himself could no longer protect.

 

‘It was raining,’ he began, not looking at Gandalf. ‘So we took shelter in the eaves of the Tower. Only the edge...’ And as he told the story, Gandalf grew more serious and it seemed that the room grew darker. Legolas felt a strange buzzing in his ears and shook his head a little; it must be a lingering after-effect of the poison, he thought. He told Gandalf how the Nazgûl had driven them deeper, how the walls had shaken, and as he spoke, the nightmare crept up on him again...

 

Cold darkness swirled around his feet and he looked around, fear gripped him, his heart raced and pounded in his chest and he found himself panting for breath . The rusty sword was in his hand again and cold touched the back of his neck, fingered down his spine. Squeezing his eyes shut, he heard a whimper and knew it was his own voice, and knew the rusty sword in his hand shook in abject terror. He was lost in the dream again, the Darkness and cold...

 

‘Legolas Thranduillion, return to us...’ He heard a voice distantly, more insistent but the rusty sword clattered to the ground and was lost in the oily darkness at this feet and he dared not reach into it for he knew the black tendrils and muscular arms would reach out and thrash around him, pull him down into their suffocating writhing coils... ‘Legolas!’

 

Suddenly a white light filled his view and he saw a tall shining figure edged with steel-blue. The kindest sense of peace overwhelmed him and he looked up...Blue eyes looked into his intensely, then slowly he saw the face emerge from the light; a beautiful, compassionate face that he thought he knew from long long ago... dimly recognised...And then he saw...

 

‘Mithrandir.’ It was almost a sob, he knew, unashamed, and when the Wizard reached out to him, he gripped his hand tightly as if he would drown if he let go.

 

The face drew back and disappeared back into a grey beard and bushy eyebrows but the eyes remained intense, bright blue and focused. ‘Hush now, young Thranduillion...Peace.’ The Wizard pressed his hand gently against Legolas’ forehead. 

 

A deep peace settled upon Legolas, as if his mother’s hand smoothed his hair back from his face, or he was enveloped in his father’s protective arms. Overwhelmed he felt a threat of tears and closed his eyes, let himself sink back down onto the pillows and realised suddenly how very, very tired he was, for he had not slept properly since they left Imladris...His eyes closed and his breath became deeper, regular.

 

‘He must not fall asleep, Gandalf. He will dream,’ Gimli’s voice rumbled and Legolas thought how very like the deep voice of the mountains he sounded, like rock and ore and the deep, still pools beneath the stone...

 

‘Do not fear for him now, Gimli. He will sleep, and dream, but his dreams will be in the Garden of Lórien and not the dark of Shadows.’ That was Mithrandir...his voice was deep but not in the way of Gimli. More like the Sea. Legolas wondered at that, for he had never seen the Sea, nor heard it, for it was perilous to stir the heart of the Silvan Elves. But Mithrandir’s voice was a comforting warmth and it soothed him, so he felt his eyes fall heavy and sleep stole over him softly. He dreamed of home...

 

0o0o

 

 

When Gandalf left, Gimli stayed to watch over Legolas. He settled himself in a comfortable chair near the tall window and looked out over the gardens to the Misty Mountains. Snow was beginning to settle over the shoulders of the great crags and he knew they would not be able to travel by the High Pass now so late in the year. He glanced at the sleeping Elf and wondered how Legolas would return home. Perhaps he would stay in Rivendell for the winter and wait for Spring, he thought and stroked his beard. 

 

Rivendell was a good place to be. Gimli thought it for himself as well. Just in the last few hours he had been able to bathe and scrub the grime of the last weeks from his skin. His hair and beard were smooth and silky with the rich perfumed oils Rivendell was famed for. 

 

But his thoughts became troubled, for he would not be lingering in the peaceful Valley; he had been asked to accompany Frodo as one of the Nine Companions, and the honour weighed upon him. It would indeed be a great task, he thought to himself, and he did not doubt his own courage or his strength of heart. No, he had seen Frodo only hours ago and though he was hale and recovered, there was a shadow upon him.

 

 

 

tbc


	23. The Wood and the Valley

Beta: Anarithilien. Thank you for finding the time for this in your very very busy life.

 

Thanks to reviewers as well of course and all of you who are helping me with details and info.

 

Chapter 23: The Wood and the Valley

 

In the Wood....

 

Dameron watched carefully as the two figures approached the edge of the Wood. He stood easily on the high branches of an oak tree and leaned against the bole, listening to the whisper of the leaves and aware of the small black squirrel that was watching him as he was watching the newcomers. Slowly the figures became clearer and Dameron saw that there were two riders.

 

The lightest whisper of leaves announced the arrival of Aerglin.

 

‘They are not short or heavy enough for Men,’ the younger Elf said, leaning forward to see them the better. Dameron glanced at him sideways; these youngsters had no patience.

 

‘They are Elves,’ he said because in spite of his annoyance, it was fleeting and he liked Aerglin. He had a good attitude and was an even better archer than Dameron himself.

 

‘Are they from the Valley?’ Aerglin asked.

 

Dameron did not reply. He could see that the Elves were clad in green and brown, and there was only one party that had gone West in years. 

 

Gradually the figures approached close enough for Dameron to see his fears confirmed. He knew Galadhon well and Alagos only by acquiantance, but there was no third rider. The foreboding gripped them both and Dameron turned to Aerglin to see the same grim concern on the other’s face.

 

‘Go to the stronghold and give the news to the King,’ he said. He glanced at Aerglin’s pale face. ‘Just go. You do not have to say more than what you have seen. It is for others to tell what happened.’ He gave the younger Elf a gentle push. ‘Go on. It may not be what you think,’ he added kindly, remembering that Aerglin had been that same group that had lost Anglach, Celdir and Naurion. They had not recovered from that yet and already it looked as if Legolas too was lost. 

 

He did not wish to think what it would do to the King, or to his other sons. And all knew that Nauriel had wished this upon Thranduil. He had not been there but it had spread through the companies of warriors who understood less a mother’s grief and more the soldier’s superstition. He listened to Aerglin passing silently through the wide branches of oak and beech, and the murmur of voices as he passed their own small company. Then he waited for Brethil to join him. It was not long.

 

‘Is it true?’ his lieutenant said quietly, breathlessly. ‘Legolas is not with them?’ He shaded his eyes with his long hand and gazed towards the two riders. ‘I will escort them back to the palace,’ he said. He looked at Dameron and frowned. ‘I cannot think the worse. Surely we cannot have lost Legolas? Not so soon after Anglach and Celdir?’

 

Dameron regarded him for a moment. ‘Do not speak it, Brethil, for you may bring it upon us.’ He turned his gaze back to the road that wound its way towards them and the two riders who were now entering the Wood. ‘But let us pray that there is more to the tale than appears.’

 

He leapt lightly down from the trees and jogged towards the two riders.

 

0o0o

 

Galadhon had been dreading this moment ever since Legolas insisted he go on alone over the Mountains. He had rehearsed how he would tell Thranduil the news. But suddenly none of it seemed plausible. And as they entered the King’s hall, he could see the worry in the King’s eyes, the small lines of tension about his mouth, the way he tapped his fingers against the arm of his carved throne, the firelight flashed in the great ruby ring he always wore. Upon his head was a crown of holly, and ivy wound up his staff. But his face was anything but jovial or festive. 

 

Galion as usual hovered solicitously at his elbow but worry gnawed at his face as well. Galadhon took a deep breath and cupped Alagos’ elbow for the messenger looked ready to fall to his knees and beg for his life.

 

Alagos began to make his customary, obsequiously low bow when Thranduil snapped his fingers and barked, ‘Tell me where is my son.’

 

‘My lord,’ Galadhon began breathlessly when hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor behind them and he turned slightly to see, to his great relief, it was Thalos who entered the hall. But Thalos did not nod or smile reassuringly. He only stared at Galadhon expectantly. No help there then, Galadhon thought, and took a breath. ‘My lord, he has crossed the Mountains and has, I hope, arrived in Imladris.’

 

He was aware of the Elves crowding at the doorway, straining to see though they did not enter the hall. It was as if Thranduil’s growing unease and fury were a tangible thing that kept them back.

 

‘You hope?’ Thranduil said coldly. He looked obliquely at Galadhon and never had the King’s eyes seemed so cold. Alagos squeaked and sank to his knees and Galadhon thought he might well do the same for if he did not, his legs would give way. Behind him, the crowd was utterly silent.

 

‘I am sure that he would have arrived in Imladris by now, my lord. We waited in Beorn’s house until Alagos was well enough to ride...’ The King’s hard green gaze swung now to Alagos.

 

‘What happened?’ he said and if his voice was cold before, now it dropped to the temperature of the North wind on Erebor. ‘Tell me where he is and how it was that you two return and yet my son does not.’

 

Galadhon heard Alagos gulp and the messenger clasped his hands together as if pleading and Galadhon was glad it was Alagos and not he who had caused this. ‘My lord king, it was a terrible accident!’ Alagos cried out and Thranduil shot to his feet.

 

‘Alagos was injured, my lord,’ Galadhon interrupted, wondering how in the Wood Alagos had survived this long as the King’s messenger. ‘But both Legolas and I escaped. He is unharmed. Legolas insisted that it was he who took the message to Elr...’

 

‘My son insisted? And you of course were unable to resist.’ 

 

It was not a sneer, thought Galadhon later. It was too cold for that. And too hard. And far too terrifying for a sneer. A statement that made it seem to Galadhon that he had somehow allowed himself to be beguiled into cowardice. Worse, that he had somehow encouraged Legolas to take the risk he himself was not willing to take.

 

‘My lord...’ Alagos protested faintly. 

 

‘Be silent.’ Thranduil’s eyes were cold green. Hard. Ice. And his mouth a thin line.He turned back to Galadhon. ‘You left him where?’

 

Galadhon suddenly realised how very, very bad this was. How very, very bad it all sounded. He swallowed, thinking he would rather be in the South right now, surrounded by Orcs. At least he knew how to fight those. ‘We had begun our ascent but the path had been turned and the way marks scattered. Certainly goblins by the signs of the fires left. And bones.’ Oh Varda, what was he saying? How much worse could it be? He was admitting he had abandoned Legolas to his fate! ‘We lost our way twice and then rocks fell upon us as we slept. Alagos broke his leg and Legolas insisted it was he who took the message. He said it was his task and I...’ He stopped. It sounded even worse now that he was saying it. ‘I believed him.’ It sounded weaker and weaker every time he opened his mouth, he thought. He should have never allowed it. He should have insisted that he go instead of Legolas. He should have...

 

‘My lord, we had no choice.’ When Alagos spoke Galadhon wanted to kick him. And it had exactly the wrong effect on Thranduil.

 

‘There is always a choice.’ The King shifted suddenly. His cloak of holly green spread about him as if he were the Wood itself pronouncing. ‘Why did you not go instead?’

 

‘My lord, I tried to persuade him to return with us. But he was set upon it.’ Galadhon turned to Alagos in appeal but the King’s Messenger was useless and had prostrated himself on the floor now. He gave Alagos a contemptuous look for it was Alagos’ fault they were here and Legolas...well, he hoped he was on his way home. ‘My lord, Legolas felt it was his task...and so did I. It was in the Song,’ he said more firmly than he felt.

 

‘That is true, my lord.’ Thalos suddenly intervened. He leaned over his father and rested his hand comfortingly on his father’s shoulder, Thranduil stilled. ‘It is in your heart too, my lord. It is why you sent him,’’ Thalos said softly. 

 

‘What can you know of a father’s heart!’ Thranduil turned and snapped at his middle son as if he could not stop himself. Thalos went to pull his hand back from his father’s shoulder but Thranduil clutched at it and held onto him. Their eyes met though neither spoke. 

 

Galadhon looked away for it seemed such a private moment with the King so suddenly vulnerable. Then he remembered Nauriel’s curse; to wish the King would know what it was to lose a son. It was an evil thing whatever her pain and loss, Galadhon thought.

 

Without relinquishing his hold upon his second son, Thranduil glanced sideways at Galion and inclined his head slightly. ‘Ready my horse.’

 

‘Oh? And is this a pleasure ride onto the plains, my lord? Or more a mountainous trek?’

 

Galadhon was not the only one to gasp at Galion’s temerity and Thranduil ‘s eyes narrowed. 

 

‘And do you plan to take anyone with you?’ Galion continued drily, approaching the carved throne. He sketched an almost insolent bow as if he had barely remembered to whom he spoke. But Galion had come over the mountains with Oropher. Galion had been his best friend and servant. They had come together from Doriath it was said, Menegroth. It was Galion to whom Thranduil always turned, who had wiped his nose, his arse and his tears, as Galion himself said, hauled him out of scrapes and battles and held him when Oropher died, when they lost the Queen. He alone might approach Thranduil with impunity, thought Galadhon. ‘Are you going on your own?’ Galion continued with feigned deference. ‘Or do you plan to leave the Wood with twenty fewer warriors?’ He came to stand beside the throne so that the King would have to look up.

 

Thranduil made a noise between a growl and a snarl that would have had most men running, but Galion tapped him lightly as if he were a recalcitrant dog. ‘Let it be. I will go.’ Thranduil ‘s eyes flew open and he jerked his head back from Galion’s hand. 

 

‘I will go with him, my lord.’ Thalos added, and his bright green eyes fixed upon the furious King now. ‘The High Pass will be snowy but I can pass it on foot. With Galion and Galadhon with me there are three of us to bring my little brother home.’

 

‘There are goblins upon the Mountains, and especially near the Pass. Galadhon said the paths had been turned. That means they guard the path!’ Thranduil said irritably, but there was a tremor of fear in his voice. Galadhon suddenly felt not the anger of a thwarted king, but the real fear of a father for his sons. And as a father himself, his heart was stirred.

 

‘My lord,’ he said, taking a step forwards. ‘I had always intended to return once I had brought Alagos back. I would have left him with Beorn if I could.’ He threw a look at Alagos who had managed to pull himself together a little and was on one knee- his healing leg stretched out behind him. ‘But I felt I would need reinforcements in case anything had befallen Legolas.’

 

‘Galadhon can show me the path, Adar. And we are Elves. We can evade the Goblins.’

 

Thranduil rose to his feet now and reached out to Thalos as if he could protect him though Thalos was the same height and a warrior for centuries in the South. ‘Orcs have been moving towards the Mountains. And crebain have been gathering high up. A battle has been or is about to be fought.’ He put his hands on Thalos’ shoulders and cradled him in his gaze. ‘I do not want you travelling the Mountains now and in the Winter. If Legolas has indeed reached Imladris, and I pray with all my heart that he has, I trust and hope that Elrond will not permit him to return across the Mountains on his own and in winter with such numbers of Orcs gathering.’ 

 

Galadhon shifted uncomfortably; it felt intrusive to be standing here listening to what was no longer a state matter but a family discussing their youngest.

 

‘My lord,’ he said hesitantly and both Thranduil and Thalos turned to him. Thalos had Thranduil’s penetrating gaze and with both now turned to him, he felt an uncomfortable heat. But he owed Legolas this for it was known that his family, seeing their youngest as the most foolhardy and in need of protection, did not always see him as the leader and warrior that he really was. So he said firmly, ‘My lords, Legolas will not return in the mid-winter with goblins mustering. He is an impressive warrior and was very in command of us. I intend to go and seek him out whatever others may do my lord, for he is my friend and I swore to him I would follow him though he bid me not to. But I do not think he is a fool.’ 

 

Galadhon swallowed but he was determined to hold his ground, and even more, to cross the mountains to meet up with Legolas and escort him home. 

 

Thranduil turned and held his gaze for a long moment, studied him and Galadhon forced himself to keep his eyes on the King’s. At last, Thranduil seemed satisfied and slid his gaze to Galion.

 

‘Galadhon, you will go. But not on your own either. Take a couple of others with you. In case there is another accident,’ he said drily. ‘Thalos, you will not go. Nor you, Galion.’ He inclined his head to Galadhon and ignored the protest that came from Galion. ‘If I cannot go, neither can you,’ he said shortly, and it was over.

 

Galadhon knew his retreat was undignified but he did not care. Perhaps it had not been as bad as he feared, after all he was free to leave on his own legs, but it had been a painful interview. And not because he feared the King, but because of the stark fear in a father’s eyes, and the knowledge of what happened to Elves captured by goblins. They had all seen it more than enough.

 

He half dragged Alagos from the Throne room, and shoved the messenger out of the door amongst the whispering crowds. ‘Go home,’ he said irritably for Alagos had been utterly useless. But he softened then, for he saw that Alagos was truly terrified. ‘Your wife will be pleased you are home.’ He watched the man stumble away and then turned for his own home in the trees to tell his own wife, his own sons that he was away across the Hithaeglir to find his friend and bring him home.

 

0o0o

 

When everyone else had gone, Thalos moved and slid his hand down his father’s arm comfortingly. ‘Surely the great eagles will watch over him?’ he asked quietly, as much for his father’s reassurance as to give his.

 

‘They did not watch over your mother,’ Thranduil snapped bitterly and Thalos stepped back, feeling the roil of angry emotions swirl about the king. His own were less fierce, a deeper pain, a slower sorrow. ‘Thalos,’ Thranduil said and when he looked up he saw his father’s eyes were softened and full of pain and anxiety. ‘Forgive me. I spoke cruelly. It is my fear.’ He sighed and then said wryly, ‘You know what he is like.’

 

Thalos smiled slightly. ‘Galadhon is right. I do not think he is quite the child we think, father. He has survived the South for many years and led his own troops often enough. Let us trust in hope.’

 

It sounded weak even to him but he had nothing else to give so he sat on the step by his father’s throne and leaned his head against his knee while Galion fussed about Thranduil and the King allowed it, for they all needed comfort.

 

0o0o

 

As it happened, Galadhon was thwarted yet again in his second attempt to cross the Hithaeglir, but this time it was for a more agreeable reason.

 

Galadhon had left the edge of the Wood with three companions, Ceredir, Silarôs and Anglareb, leaving their horses this time with their escort and travelling beyond the Wood on foot. After five days of travel they were in sight of the foothills of the Hithaeglir. Ahead heavy snow clouds lay over the mountains, and the peaks were shrouded. A flock of black birds was speeding over the plains and Silarôs, only recently returned to duty, had shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted against the winter sunlight.

 

‘That is crebain,’ he had said. ‘So many cannot herald any good surely?’

 

Galadhon winced. Silarôs always had the keenest sight and now he too could see the scattered shapes like black cinders on the wind. ‘The King had word of a great battle between Orcs and the Valley. They must be feasting well upon their erstwhile allies.’ There was no question that any Elvish casualties would be taken back to Imladris. Unless their casualties were great indeed.

 

Above them then an eagle called and he looked up. The bird was high and moving fast. Shading his eyes with his hands, Galadhon gazed after it and gasped as it suddenly wheeled above them and plummeted. It had shot towards them and he cried aloud.

 

‘Ware eagle!’ His companions ducked their heads and crouched to the ground and Galadhon saw that Silarôs had drawn his bow and an arrow notched. ‘Hold!’ he cried for he remembered the eagles at Erebor and how they had so carefully borne Thorin Oakenshield from the battlefield and how they had gathered protectively about Thranduil.

 

Later he was glad that he did for the eagle suddenly pulled out of its dive and flapped its wings against its own fall, beating the air until it hovered above them. Galadhon slowly pushed himself to his feet, shoving Silarôs’ bow to the ground. 

 

‘Lord Eagle,’ he said for it could only be one of the great eagles of the Mountains. ‘We are honored that you come to us. Do you have news for I am sure that you need no assistance, much though we owe you?’

 

If eagles could snort this one would, he thought for it regarded him with a sharp and beady eye. ‘Elves of the Wood,’ it lisped in a sharp, staccato voice. ‘What brings you here to the foothills of the Hithaeglir?’

 

Galadhon stepped closer. ‘We are grateful for news, lord Eagle. We seek our friend, the son of Thranduil, Aran of the Wood. With your bright sharp eye, might you have seen him?’

 

The eagle cocked his head on one side and regarded Galadhon with its sharp raptor’s eye. ‘One of your kind passed over the Mountains but a month since? He travelled with you until the rocks fell and you turned back. He now dwells in the Valley with the lord of that land, Elrond Halfelven.’

 

There was a cry of relief and delight from his companions and Galadhon felt the tension he had lived with since Legolas had turned and waved to him before striding swiftly up the steep mountain track and disappeared into the Hithaeglir, ease from his chest, He felt like sinking to his knees and offering up a prayer to Elbereth. ‘Aran Thranduil will bless you for this, my lord,’ Galadhon finally was able to speak. ‘Ceredir, go swiftly and take the news to the Wood. Aran Thranduil will bless you too, Ceredir.’

 

The eagle ruffled its feathers so they lifted slightly on the breeze. ‘My good Elves, I was on my way with a message from Mithrandir himself for your King. Perhaps you will take it for me?’

 

‘Ceredir, take the message from my lord,’ Galadhon said, trying to suppress his curiosity and Ceredir stood forward, expecting to see a message tied to the eagle’s leg or some such thing.

 

Instead the eagle turned its yellow eye upon the Elf and said, ‘Very well. This is what Mithrandir bid me tell your King: Legolas is well. He has given me your message. I regard your duty to me not yet discharged and ask a boon of you.’ The eagle flexed one foot and its talons stretched out like blades. ‘I was to listen to the King’s reply and then tell him this: I ask that Legolas stay in my service for a little longer. I will see him safe across the Mountains if you agree though I cannot guarantee when you will see him again.’

 

Galadhon looked at Ceredir blankly. Relieved as he was that Legolas was safe, he could see the same look of panic and fear in the faces of his companions. None of them would wish to give this news to the King and Galadhon thought he had already just escaped with his skin. He tilted his head and looked guilelessly at the Eagle

 

‘My lord Eagle,’ he began. ‘The Aran Thranduil is most worried about his son and it will be many days before we can bring this news to him. He will, I know, see himself in your debt should you take this message to him yourself for on your wide wings, you could reach him before nightfall and he will sleep a night of peace knowing his child is safe.’

 

The eagle watched him with shrewd, sharp eyes but did not speak. He was aware too that his companions watched equally shrewdly and with calculated approval. Jerkily the eagle cocked its head. ‘If it soothes the heart of the Elvenking, I will take the message myself. If it soothes the troubled hearts of his warriors, who fear to give him such news, then I account myself fortunate to be able to render such service,’ it said formally and Galadhon swore there was a glint in its eye that was not its ferocity but humour. ‘I will add too, for your comfort,’ and there was definitely a glint in its eye now,’ that Mithrandir guessed you might be following and bid any search group return to the King. He will ensure Legolas’ passage over the Mountains.’

 

Galadhon looked at his companions. ‘Then should we return as Mithrandir bids?’

 

They looked at each other. They had been charged by Thranduil to ensure Legolas’ safety. But now here was assurance from Mithrandir no less, that he would see Legolas over the Mountains. They were torn, for warriors could never truly be spared from the Wood.

 

‘The King will not be pleased,’ Silarôs observed and cast a look over his shoulder at the towering peaks, shrouded in cloud and snow. ‘But Mithrandir says he needs his services and will see him safe himself over the mountains.’ 

 

‘Do you think he will take the High Pass so late in the year if Caradhras is open?’ Galadhon asked his companions thoughtfully. ‘If I were Mithrandir I would not seek a route north if I could take a southern route. We might well arrive in Imladris to find him gone.’

 

The eagle cocked its head again and ruffled its feathers importantly. ‘South they will go, Elves of the Wood. ‘I could give one of you a place on my back and you can deliver the message to the King if you wish.’

 

Galadhon gave the bird a dirty look. It was enjoying this far too much; it was a bird. It wasn’t supposed to have a sense of humour. Perhaps this was just a messenger bird, like Alagos and not one of the Great Eagles who had come to their aid at Erebor after all.

 

‘No. We would not dream of taking your place. May the wind always speed you to far off places and distant lands,’ Galadhon said drily, hoping the wind would give it a good swat as it returned.

 

‘And the wind always up your arse,’ Silarôs muttered but the eagle was clearly too lofty to pay attention or chose to ignore it and spreading its huge wings, it leapt into the air and with a piercing cry that hurt their ears for good measure, it swept off into the thermals and within moments, was speeding swiftly towards the dark line of trees that showed the edge of Mirkwood.

 

‘So. We go homewards,’ said Galadhon without real enthusiasm.

 

‘What do you think the King will say?’ asked Aglareb nervously for he was very young and had little to do with with King. Yet he had asked to go on this mission for Legolas had been his patrol leader in the East Bite and Aglareb had told Galadhon that it was Legolas who had got him through his first encounter with the Nazgûl. 

 

‘The King... will be pleased that Legolas is safe,’ Galadhon began hesitantly, thinking it through. ‘But he will be furious he has not returned.’

 

‘Furious,’ echoed Aglareb with wide eyes.

 

‘He will be that,’ echoed Silarôs rubbing his arm which had just recovered. ‘Right glad am I that it is not I who has to report to him, Galadhon.’ He turned his gaze too on Galadhon, who felt uncomfortably hot right then.

 

‘Come, it is not Galadhon who has decided to keep hold of Legolas,’ protested Ceredir and he came to stand beside Galadhon supportively. ‘We should all tell the King together.’

 

Silarôs looked worried, and Aglareb’s eyes were even wider and his mouth dropped open a little then. ‘Tell the King?’ he whispered. ‘Tell him that Legolas is in Imladris? With Elrond Halfelven? And Mithrandir?’ He stared at Galadhon. ‘And that he isn’t with us? And he sent...’

 

‘Yes alright, Aglareb,’ snapped Galadhon wishing it was just him and Ceredir. At least last time he could blame Alagos. ‘Anyway, its the eagle that will give him the message.’

 

‘Yes, but he wont be angry with an eagle,’ Aglareb was still aghast.

 

‘Close your mouth Aglareb, you look like a goblin,’ Silarôs said in amusement, watching Galadhon out of the corner of his eye with a slight smirk. ‘He wont be angry with us. He’ll be angry with Legolas. And Mithrandir.’

 

Galadhon thought for a while. Yes. He would be angry with Legolas for delaying his return. But he would be furious with Mithrandir. He smiled to himself. He knew now what he had to say.

 

0o0o

 

 

In the Valley...

 

 

In Imladris, Pippin was happy. Well, as much as he could be with the threat of Gloom and Imminent Death hanging over the Valley. But it was a lovely wintery day and here in Rivendell it was easy to forget that Mordor was anything more than a fairytale to frighten naughty Hobbit children into bed. He hummed as he went from one room to another. It was even more convenient that Frodo had been moved to these spacious chambers because they were quite close to Pippin’s new friends, Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf.

 

He beamed. Having an Elf and Dwarf for a friend put him well ahead of Merry, who was becoming a bit too sensible for Pippin’s liking. He liked Legolas in particular for having a quite Hobbit-like appetite when he was awake. Limnauth had told Pippin that Legolas was recovering from a very nasty poison that would make him very tired for a bit. She had looked a little misty-eyed when she said this and Pippin thought he had a good idea why for several maidens had peeked in on Legolas as he slept, only to be shooed away by Heredir who was the chief healer it seemed and rather formidable. He had told Limnauth to concentrate too.

 

Pippin tapped the two apples in his packet that he had purloined from the kitchen to share with his new friend. He peered round the open door of the ward in which Legolas was kept. Not kept, he corrected himself. But Legolas had complained how bored he was so Pippin thought that must be how Legolas felt.

 

But the Elf was not in his bed!

 

Pippin went quickly into the room and looked about. The bed was made and smooth as if no one had ever been in it. The windows were closed tightly against the winter; Legolas always had them open, even when the cold North wind had swept into the Valley, bringing the smell of snow on the high mountains. Although it never seemed to snow here in Rivendell, Pippin thought.

 

And the chair was empty. So Gimli was not here either.

 

Pippin plonked himself down on the edge of the empty bed and sighed. Perhaps Legolas had gone home. But Pippin thought he had not been the sort of person to not have bid farewell.

 

‘Pippin!’ a bright voice cried from the garden.

 

Pippin scrambled to his feet and pressed his nose against the glass of the window. 

‘Legolas!’

 

The Elf waved at him cheerfully and smiled widely. That was more like it, thought Pippin. 

 

‘Are you allowed out then?’ he called as he threw open the window.

 

Legolas’ face fell. ‘Not really. They would have me cooped up until Spring,’ he said but then he looked at Pippin and that smile spread across his face again. ‘But I have persuaded Limnauth that I will recover more quickly if I am allowed to go into the garden. She has said only if Merry would come with me. I think it is in case I fall over or stub my toe,’ he added brightly.

 

Merry! Pippin almost pouted, but he loved Merry. And he didn’t mind sharing Legolas. 

‘When Sam and Frodo said they would come as well, they almost threw me into the garden they were so pleased!’ Legolas laughed and threw a glance at Merry.

 

Pippin felt a momentary twinge of something in his chest but he didn’t really know what it was except it made him feel horrible. And there was that slight buzzing in his ears again. He pushed it away impatiently. ‘I’ll be there in a second,’ he called. Legolas nodded and Pippin hurried down the elegant sweep of stairs and out into the gardens below the healing rooms.

 

Pippin bounced into the garden where he saw that Frodo was sitting carefully on a stone bench and Sam was fussing around him patting and plumping up cushions while Merry sat back with his hands behind his head and puffed on his pipe, blowing smoke rings. Legolas was sitting on the damp grass, leaning against a tree with his long legs stretched out in front of him and a sweet smile on his face as he watched Sam. He looked up as Pippin trotted up and his smile widened.

 

‘See,’ he waved his hand expansively, ‘a host of Hobbits.’

 

‘I believe the collective noun is a comfort,’ Merry observed complacently. ‘But it is a terror of Tooks,’ he added with a deceptively cool look at Pippin.

 

‘Well in that case it’s a bug...’

 

‘A baggage of Brandybucks,’ Frodo interrupted quickly with a shocked but rather amused look and Pippin was so pleased that Frodo was smiling that he forgot he was going to get back at Merry and determined to amuse Frodo. And Legolas of course, for both had been injured by the Nazgûl. ‘Ooh- that reminds me,’ he said without really thinking it through, ‘Legolas , you haven't told us yet how you fought the Nazg...ow!’ He glared at Merry who had just kicked him. ‘What was that for?’

 

‘Legolas might want to talk about something else.’ Merry glared at him in a way that Pippin knew from past experience was meant to be meaningful but he could not for the life of him think what it was that Merry was being meaningful about. Merry tutted and then added, ‘Legolas might not want to talk about it.’ He jerked his head towards Frodo even though he was talking about Legolas and that mystified Pippin even more.

 

He felt a little tangled up in that so he shook himself and asked politely, ‘Legolas, do you mind telling us?’ 

 

Legolas looked from one Hobbit to the other and his face showed no trace of concern but no trace of interest either- it was actually very difficult to tell anything. ‘I did not fight the Nazgûl,’ he said. ‘Not really. Not like you did on Amon Sul. All I did was run until I could run no more and then ...well...’ He looked away.

 

Frodo stirred then, and Sam glared at Pippin, and Merry tutted and Pippin was confused. ‘What did I say?’ Pippin demanded, opening his hands out in plea. ‘All I did...’

 

‘All you did is upset everyone two seconds after you arrived,’ snapped Merry and Pippin felt a bubble of misery well up in his chest and horribly he thought he might cry. He let his chin drop and bit his lip.

 

Then he felt the lightest, most fleeting touch on his arm and glanced up miserably. It was Legolas and the Elf was looking at him in kind concern. Legolas’ eyes were very green, Pippin realised, and flecked with gold. 

 

‘I do not mind Pippin asking me,’ Legolas said kindly and then turned back to Pippin. ‘But I was not brave. We were running away as I told you. It is just that there was nowhere to run in truth. But you, you stayed and faced not one but many of them. You faced the Witch King of Angmar,’ he said and he sounded genuinely awed. 

 

‘Well, I don't know about faced them,’ Pippin said, feeling a bit more cheerful. ‘We didn't have much choice either because they had surrounded us and we couldn’t go anyway. And anyway, Frodo was there and they were after him. We couldn't just leave him.’

 

Pippin glanced at Frodo’s pale face and smiled brightly. ‘Anyway, Sam wouldn’t have left Frodo and Sam makes the best ever sausages.’

 

‘He does,’ agreed Merry and it seemed that Pippin was forgiven. ‘You must know, Legolas, sausages are very difficult to get just right. Sam gets them done just enough without being burnt.’

 

When Legolas turned to Sam, the gardener blushed furiously and ducked his head. ‘I have never had sausages,’ Legolas said and Sam looked up in astonishment.

 

‘Why! Don’t you have sausages in Mirkwood, Mister Legolas? Well I don’t know. What do you eat out there? I suppose spiders and wolves?’ Merry nodded in agreement and Pippin wondered what spider tasted like. He thought they might not taste very nice. 

 

‘We certainly do not eat wolves!’ Legolas said shocked and Frodo winced.

 

‘Of course they don’t,’ protested Frodo in a tight voice ‘Don’t you remember Bilbo’s description of the wonderful feasts in the Elvenking’s halls?’

 

‘Of course. Begging your pardon, Mister Legolas. I just thought... well I don’t rightly know what I thought.’

 

‘But we do eat spiders,’ Legolas said brightly. ‘But I would very much like the recipe for sausages to see if we can’t make sausages out of them. It is quite tasteless meat and rather sparse. They live on the black squirrels and Orcs if they can catch them so they don’t taste very nice.’

 

Pippin stared at Legolas in awe. The Elves of Mirkwood ate spiders. Did they roast them slowly on the spit like you did with pork he wondered.

 

‘And Orc is really disgusting.’ Legolas continued. ‘Of course they eat anything. But they are gristly and fatty. You have to be really hungry for that.’

 

Pippin knew he was staring because Merry and Sam were too, their eyes wide. 

 

‘I think Bilbo may have tried spider pie when he was in the Wood,’ said Frodo seriously. ‘But I think I remember him saying he was put off by all the little legs hanging out.’

 

‘Oh really?’ Legolas looked politely surprised. ‘But that is a great delicacy. If Galion leaves the legs hanging out that is usually for the King himself. He likes nothing better than a spider leg.’

 

Pippin imagined an Elf, probably a bit like Elrond, tucking into a spider leg, crunching it up with relish and licking his fingers. ‘What does it taste like?’ he asked in awe.

 

‘Chicken,’ said Legolas.

 

‘Pork,’ said Frodo at the same time. He grinned. ‘That’s what Bilbo said.’

 

Their horrified delight was broken then by an Elf calling to them, and when they looked up, he gave a wave. Pippin had seen the Elf around Rivendell and knew he worked in the kitchens and around the House, because he was kind to Pippin and often made sure the Hobbits had extra pies, cakes, apples, pastries. Pippin smiled and waved back. Then he turned to Merry. 

 

‘Berensul probably has some extras for us. Shall I ask him if he knows how to make Spider pie?’

 

‘He will not know,’ Legolas said a little tersely, thought Pippin. And then when he saw Legolas’ face, he thought perhaps it was more regret than terseness. Because his eyes were a little sad. Legolas rose to his feet gracefully and looked down at the Hobbits. ‘Farewell my friends. I will see you perhaps in the Hall of Fire? There is to be story-telling tonight I hear and I wish to enjoy myself before I leave.’

 

Pippin opened his mouth to ask Legolas if he would have his supper with them that evening but the Elf turned so quickly to leave that Pippin was left sitting there with his mouth open. He shut it quickly before anyone saw.

 

‘Is Legolas avoiding Berensul?’ asked Frodo softly, for their companion had taken the path opposite to Berensul’s and now Berensul had diverted away from the Hobbits and followed Legolas, who walked more quickly perhaps, thought Pippin, than was strictly polite. 

 

It was useless anyway, he saw, for Berensul - who knew this place much better than Legolas - disappeared behind a hedge and then re-emerged in front of Legolas, his hand held out as if beseeching. Legolas must have given up by then because his head went down a little and then he followed Berensul as if resigned.

 

‘Perhaps Berensul has been sent to take Legolas back to bed,’ Pippin wondered aloud. ‘He was only supposed to be out for a little while but he looked perfectly fine to me.’

 

‘But he has dark circles under his eyes, Pip,’ Frodo answered softly. ‘And he dreams....I have heard him cry out.’

 

Pippin was upset to hear that and glanced at Merry, but Merry was looking at Frodo with a strange expression on his face so Pippin followed his gaze and saw that the dark circles he had not noticed on Legolas, were under Frodo’s eyes more noticeably, and he looked pale and drawn still. 

 

‘Enough of this doom and despair!’ he cried. ‘Come Sam, give us one of your songs - perhaps one about a gardener for his true love? A rose perhaps?’ he added mischievously and nudged Merry and Frodo laughed kindly.

 

‘Don’t tease Sam,’ he said gently. ‘I will sing you a song instead. About Farmer Maggot and his mushrooms.’

 

 

tbc


	24. Lothlorien

Author’s note: Curvë –Science. Knowledge. In my verse, it refers specifically to Feänorian technology –which gives it connotations of forbidden knowledge. In The Shibboleth of Fëanor, nolmë is knowledge in philosophy for example and kurwë is technical skill and invention. The K of Quenya has, in my mind, been adapted to the C of sindarin even for Galadriel who has been in ME for almost four ages.

* Description of Lothlorien from FotR, Book II, Ch 7, The Mirror of Galadriel  

 

Chapter 24: Lothlorien

She sketched a mark across the Mirror, over its obsidian surface, and light scratched across the darkness. She stared into it, seeing her face reflected obliquely, distantly, shadowed and made brittle with grief.

This is not I, she thought with a start. Not I, with that weight of grief, of bitterness and guilt. 

She blinked and for a moment thought about turning away, resisting the lure of the Mirror…but it was hard. It drew her in, knowledge, curvë. It always had. It was why in Aman she had followed Feänor. It was why in later ages, she had gone to Ost-in-Edhel. It was what Sauron had first cultivated and then deliberately sought to obliterate through the destruction of Celebrimbor’s cities; he had slain every last soul, destroyed utterly the wondrous melding of Dwarvish and Noldor curvë. 

The ignorant called it magic. 

She drew Nenya across the obsidian glass, cutting lines across the reflection of her own face like wounds. 

Tell me, she whispered. Show me. 

The Mirror shot through with light suddenly and the threads of Time began to part and unravel. She skimmed across them with nothing but Thought and Nenya spooled and unraveled the threads. She peered into the spaces between and through the obsidian star-blasted glass into Time, through Time, beyond into those places that only curvë understood. 

Nenya cut images from the obsidian darkness; she saw the white towers, the lofty spires of Tirion. Far away, long ago. Within marble halls, women glided, sang, weaved, strummed on harps and lutes... Sterile. Constrained She saw her own younger self, Artanis, straining at the restrictions that Aman laid upon her, wanting so much more.

Why are you showing me this? she demanded and suddenly there was Feänor himself staring out of the Mirror as if he saw her looking across three Ages of Elves. She stared back unflinching, remembered the burning ambition, the excitement of those heady, over-heated days. 

The Mirror seemed to splinter into white dust: ash first, from the burning ships, and then snow. Snow hardened into the bitterness of the Ice. All Feänor’s promises were empty and few had mourned his loss when they arrived on the shores of Ennor… Though hunger gnawed at her belly and her limbs burned with exhaustion, there was exhilaration too.

Why are you showing me this? She demanded again, more fiercely. Is this not long gone, done with? They are all dead. I am the last of the children of Finarfin. One of the last of the Exiles. She and a handful of others who yet defied the Valar...And I ever will, she swore.   
Why do you show me this? She asked a third time. She stirred her finger across the black glass and cut it with light from Nenya. 

This time the Mirror cleared and she saw herself in her Golden Wood that even after the long Ages, was still not home. She saw herself as she was, a Queen. But even to her, her beauty seemed harder, more brilliant. Upon her hand was Nenya but in the Mirror it was eclipsed by another ring. A simple gold ring. 

There was such Power in this Queen’s hand! Such knowledge within her grasp! The lost Curvë of the Noldor was nothing compared with what she knew. In the Mirror, she looked across the heavens scattered with stars and saw such things! Giant stars, unimaginably huge globes of gases that burned dully, tiny white stars that were collapsing, falling ever and ever inwards until… until…she could not comprehend but the Dark Queen did; she reached out her hand and harnessed the energy of it all, threw her power across the Sea and there ripped open the veil that cloaked Aman. She reached out with her other hand and drew them all back; beautiful, beloved Finrod, healed his scarred and broken body and restored him. And there was sweet Angrod, Orodreth – and behind them came her glorious cousins…and each one knelt before her and worshipped her as they would the Valar. Except they never had, she thought. She smiled and tasted salt, felt her face was wet and was surprised at the depth of her longing for their bright, lost souls. 

Had they truly been banished, lost forever in the Dark? 

And what if the Golden Wood fell? If she were taken and killed? Or if Lorien were overrun and she taken by Sauron? 

A cold finger stroked down her spine. She would kill herself first...

...And then? 

Ah. That was it. What then indeed? Not Mandos’ Hall for such a determined exile as she...Then Darkness? The Outer Dark where Melkor had been vanquished with his demons?

She threw her head up and lifted her chin defiantly. In the Mirror, the Dark Queen stood bright, proud; she lifted her hand and they stood, fell back, silenced as she passed. She quelled them with a glance…

This is what has yet to pass….

The Mirror darkened and faded. …And then the small, pinched face appeared. Eyes haunted by something that whispered, that thrummed with Power… It was not the first time she had seen this face. 

And then the small face looked over his own shoulder and behind him eight more. One she knew was Gandalf for she saw the blue-steel light that was Olórin, though a fire-limned shadow followed him. Two Men she saw, one was Aragorn. A bright-haired Elf stood with a Dwarf. Narvi and Tylepo? she thought with a shock. But she looked closer. Not Celebrimbor then. Too sweet-faced, too naïve. Far too young and unspoiled. Green light, like sunlight through newly unfurled beech leaves bathed him and there were fireflies fluttering somewhere... they were not fireflies though but the flickering light of a feä. The Dwarf was not Narvi either; too young, his vibrancy was of war not craft. The second Man was a deep flame; he burned slowly, and there was a darkness about him born of despair. 

The small company faded into the mists of the Mirror, the veil dropped over them and she knew this was soon to be. But quickly on their heels, two sparks appeared, flared and glittered. Flames in the wild night. She knew them. Her grandsons, the Sons of Thunder. They were coming…

This is now. And they bring news… 

Something had happened… Her grandsons brought immense tidings from over the Mountains, tidings that connected these images somehow.

And then suddenly there was Elrohir. Crimson power, fire and blood. He was caught in a maelstrom. Shadows grasped at him, a low chanting filled the air and she stared, wide-eyed and pushed harder at the Threads of Time, wanting to see what had befallen him. 

Silence fell and the darkness swirled and deepened to black. There was only sound then. 

Distantly at first, a single note, a hammer on iron, steel…not a hammer but a sword on steel. Metal on metal. A din and clamour rang about her, all around, and then she heard cries and shouting far off. At first she had thought she was in a forge but then there was screaming that did not stop. Battle, she realised. 

From the Dark appeared an iron ring. Then an iron crown…she saw through another’s eyes that a dark figure was rising slowly from the earth, tall and strong, with long silk-black hair lifting on the wind. A dull gleam on its brow, an iron crown and on its hand gleamed a ring with a crimson jewel, like an eye.    She barely gasped, a dreadful pain in her chest pressed down upon her. Elrohir.    

Ash...  ...nazg...  ...durbatulûk...  

Elrohir’s grey eyes were hard as flint, as steel, and his noble, stern face was impassive, implacable. In his hand a blade gleamed dully. A Morgul blade and he strode towards a fallen warrior…Elladan! 

The Mirror shimmered and trembled and she realised she had touched its surface. She drew her hand quickly around the rim of the glass, so Nenya rang on the glass rim, grew to a high pitch almost a screech and she knew she was losing control. 

She could not move and darkness roiled about her. The din of battle deafened her but words scattered like spider webs across her skin.   

Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul...  

She felt the cold breath of the Nazgûl drawing close now and closer. Their naked hunger...and Aícanaro rang like a glass goblet with their closeness. But she could not lift it, could not wield the black blade.    She knew then she was seeing events through Elladan’s eyes, felt what he felt, heard his thoughts. He had Aícanaro – how had Elrohir come to lose the dark blade? But Elladan had it -and he could not strike his brother though the world depended on it.

Aícanaro...a hiss, hatred that burned like ice. The Nazgûl drew close, leaned towards Elladan. This time thou shalt not survive. This time thou shalt melt in the heat of the One.   

It was so hot, as hot as Oroduin. The darkness was limned with red fire which grew brighter and brighter and she could not turn away, or raise her hands to her face.   

I see you.   

A sense of absolute terror struck her and she felt a wetness run down her legs. A great Eye opened high, high up in the darkness but its brightness; its dreadful Power searched and pierced the dark like a spear.

I see you

She gasped and found herself drawn down, pulled into the Eye. She struggled tried to draw back, to cloak herself, hide but He switched his gaze. Like a beacon the Eye pierced the dark around her and she was caught in a spotlight of white flame and hurt. 

Where is it? 

Ah- the pressure…like stones upon her chest…like the Sea…dragging her under. She could not breath….

Where is it, my…?

She threw herself back, and suddenly the Mirror went black, obsidian star-blasted glass once again with merely swallowed the light, reflected nothing...

She found herself collapsed on the cold ground, trembling. Nenya was dull, lifeless. The Mirror darkened. Her hands shook and she clasped her shawl around her shoulders and knelt for hours in the shadows that crowded her in this place, the past, the future. Until the stars were fading from the sky she remained on the cold ground, and the thin crack of dawn appeared over the treetops. 

 

o0o0o

 

They paused at the Dimril Dale as was their custom in spite of the bitter cold, for something called to Elladan about that deep, dark water. It evoked some sense of nostalgia in him that he could not account for. And as ever, Elrohir indulged him and stood watch high up and would not come down into the Dale for he said it was a haunted place, and full of ghosts. 

Almost he could believe it for as he walked down to the Mirrormere something prickled down Elladan’s spine like they were being watched and he turned quickly, surveying the surrounding mountains. Still, dark water like a glass reflected the circling mountains, the blue sky and the scudding clouds. Around him the dark pine trees climbed out the shallow bowl that held the lake, and he let his senses reach out to his brother. Lightly he brushed across Elrohir’s thoughts, not probing, just lightly, to reassure and to touch...

But he was thrown back by the self-loathing and longing that roiled and surged from his brother. 

Elladan rubbed a hand over his face; would it never end? It wearied him sometimes, and when he tried to draw Elrohir out, to comfort him, he was often thrown off, shaken loose as if his concern and love were nothing. It was worse when they crossed the Redhorn Gate, or were in Imladris or Lorien, for it was nearby that they had found their poor torn mother.

Elladan stood at the edge of the Mirrormere and stared into the cold stillness. They had found her, a bundle of thin bones and bloody rags and she had shrieked and cursed them both, torn and clawed at Elrohir’s face for Elrohir had been the one to find her, brought her out of that den of Orcs and filth and stench. It had been Elrohir who had shielded Elladan from the sight, drawing his own cloak around her, and when her nails raked down Elrohir’s face, he had not flinched, he simply wrapped her in his hurt love, and whispered soothingly to her. The things she had screamed at him…even now Elladan baulked at the memory. 

Neither of them could forget. But Elladan felt the familiar guilt that he did not feel the same rage and fury that tormented Elrohir and if he were honest with himself, the merciless quest for vengeance was more about him following Elrohir than about his own need for revenge. He felt the lack in himself and hated himself for it. 

Once when they were but children Elrohir had declared loudly ‘I wish I had been born in the First Age, in the time of Heroes!’ Their father had admonished him but he said, even more loudly, ‘I would have followed Feänaró and stood with him against Moringotto!’ But when Elrohir saw that it had grieved Celebrián, saw her hurt face, he had run to her and laid his head upon her chest and hugged her until she stroked his head and whispered that he was a monster child who had perhaps been mislaid indeed by Feänor and hatched from an egg. It had been Elrohir who had drawn Elladan into their mother’s embrace and she had hugged him almost absent-mindedly. It had stung then and would have more had Elrohir not always tried so hard to bring Elladan into the warmth and embrace. 

He turned from the gnaw of the Past and began climbing up the slope towards Elrohir. Baraghur nickered a welcome but Elrohir had his back to him and did not turn when Elladan joined him. 

‘She is watching us,’ he said, and Elladan blinked. 

‘I thought there was something,’ he replied, pulling his gloves from his cold hands and flexing his fingers. ‘It always unnerves me when she does that.’ He shrugged his cloak about himself more closely for the cold fingered its way down his neck. ‘I know it is the Mirror but that does not make it any easier knowing she can spy on anyone of our blood.’

He thought about suggesting they rest and build a fire, eat, but his brother’s closed face made him pause. ‘If we ride fast we can be in the eaves of Lorien by nightfall tomorrow,’ he said instead, as cheerfully as he could.

But Elrohir turned to him then with a black look. ‘Would that we did not have to go there at all.’ He pulled his gaze away from Elladan and looked down the mountain trail. ‘But I suppose we must,’ he added grimly. 

Elladan frowned. The truth was that Elrohir avoided Lorien because the same dreadful loss was in Galadriel’s eyes as in Elrohir’s, and that was what he could not bear. 

‘It is different for you, she has always favoured you,’ Elrohir said but it was without rancour or accusation. 

‘Do you think so?’ Elladan asked mildly. He thought it true but only because Galadriel tried to compensate for the distance she saw between her daughter and her younger son. He said nothing though. What point was there? Instead he led his black horse out and stuck his foot in the stirrup, swung himself astride and waited for Elrohir. As he waited, and Baraghur snatched at the poor winter grass, he thought how he had tried not to let it wound him, that closeness between their mother and Elrohir for he could not begrudge his twin anything. Ever. But when Celebrián had sailed and Elladan had thought Elrohir would turn to him as he turned to Elrohir, he found that Elrohir had wrenched his heart away and hidden it deep, bathed in crimson fury and blood. So Elladan had been left to grieve in his own quiet way. 

Erestor had been the one to draw him close, knowing perhaps how quietly and deeply Elladan was in grief not only for his mother but perhaps even more for his beloved twin. 

A strange pair he and Erestor made, he thought as he watched Elrohir ready himself. While Elrohir checked his own horse’s girth and pulled down the stirrups, kicked over the ashes of the fire, Elladan recalled drunken evenings of chess where Erestor had played him at Suicide. Or when they had sparring bouts and Erestor had driven him relentlessly, so he came home covered in bruises making Elrohir furious, first with Erestor, and then later with Elladan for allowing the beating. ‘It is so I know pain and do not fear it,’ he had told Elrohir. ‘Erestor will not patronize me by letting me win. No Orc would.’ 

He looked up suddenly at the lightening sky, feeling a twinge of unease. Birds flew up from the margins of the lake, a clatter of wings in the silence. Both he and Elrohir froze, looked out to where the birds had flown up. For a long moment they did not move, but it was nothing; merely ducks flying in the early morning.

Elrohir glanced at him and then swung himself up onto his horse. He clicked to Barakhir and though they moved off, the feeling of unease did not leave Elladan and he scanned the mountain slopes above. The bitter cold turned their breath to smoke and the hard frost on the ground silvered everything. If they had not been here, perhaps both would have seen the beauty in it, thought Elladan and he put the unease down to the place.

They urged their black horses down the faint mountain trail. In spite of their haste, they were not reckless and it took some hours before they finally saw the silver ribbon that was the Anduin in the far distance. The Celebrant poured and foamed beside them, melt water from the glacier of Caradhras. Green-white water roared, almost deafening at times, thundering into pools and falls. Granite rocks gleamed in the pale winter light and above them, the skies were low and a yellowish tint touched the edges. Snow, thought Elladan and he glanced up at the Mountains behind them, glad to be off the steep and treacherous crags.

They rode carefully for hours but the concentration was tiring for both horses and when Baraghur stumbled, Elrohir slowed and turned and made them stop. They rested an hour before continuing for the path was icy in places and they often dismounted and led their horses down steep twisting paths that sometimes disappeared onto scree slopes or through the boulders as they descended the mountains in the bleak December afternoon that was lowering into dusk.

They were within sight of Lothlorien. Far away in the distance was the black line that was Mirkwood.

‘Let us keep going as long as we can and then stop once more to rest the horses,’ Elladan suggested, hoping that the niggle in the back of his mind would fade as they left the mountains far behind. Elrohir did not reply but both knew they needed to compose themselves before they arrived; they needed to smooth their pain away and to show the flat shield of their brotherhood to everyone, most especially Galadriel.

When finally it was too dark to continue and Barakhir stumbled, they stopped. A rabbit swung from Elrohir’s saddle, bagged earlier, and Elladan gathered dry twigs for kindling for a fire. It did not take Elrohir long to skin and gut the rabbit while Elladan leaned forward to build the fire, the unease growing upon him inexplicably.

It was not imminent danger, he knew so he struck his flint and sparks flew. He held it close to the dry kindling he had found and murmured quietly. The dry twigs leapt and flared and kindled. He sat back on his heels, watching it for a moment. 

‘I will take watch,’ Elrohir said. Sensing Elladan’s disquiet, he smoothed a hand over his brother’s hair as he passed.

Elladan looked up briefly and smiled. ‘Do you think Aragorn has returned to Imladris yet?’ He threw a few more sticks onto the fire to feed it and thought that perhaps he was just over-wrought from being in these Mountains, crossing the pass that they had once crossed with their mother. ‘And Legolas? I wonder if he has recovered.’ 

He did not see how Elrohir’s face darkened and his eyes grew hard and angry. Throwing more twigs on the fire, Elladan said, ‘Perhaps he is already on his way home to Mirkwood.’

‘He is probably fully recovered and fucking that whore, Berensul,’ Elrohir snapped and Elladan shot him a startled look. 

‘I have never heard you use that word of Berensul before,’ he observed mildly. ‘Although others have and I have heard you upbraid them.’ He held his brother’s gaze until Elrohir looked away. He knew Elrohir was ashamed for it was unlike him to judge so harshly and he had never been one to cite the Laws.* Frowning, Elladan reached for a long, thin stick to prod the fire and threw on more kindling until the fire caught. 

‘Perhaps I have not realised it before,’ he heard Elrohir say and his voice sounded distant, as if he were looking into the sky.

‘What? You have been unaware of Berensul’s promiscuity?’ Elladan laughed and looked about for the heavier sticks and thin branches they had found. ‘Surely not! When half the guardroom gossip is about him! I half expect to find him pursuing you,’ he added lightly, pulling some thinner branches towards him, for both he and Elrohir were pursued by many potential lovers. But where Elladan had loved, Elrohir sternly repelled every effort with a cool bitterness that had made any suitor wary. There were whispers too in the kitchens and stables and barracks. He wished Elrohir could find happiness. That was behind his next words. ‘Perhaps it is not Berensul that you think of but Legolas Thranduillion. Perhaps it is the thought of he and Berensul that makes you so angry.’ He meant it as a throw away, to end Elrohir’s hostility towards Berensul.

‘What?’ 

Elladan looked up in surprise to find Elrohir standing over him, fists clenched and glaring at him in outrage. 

‘How dare you say that! You may be my brother, my blood, but you know me not at all if you think that! How can you even think of it? How can you ever...How could you ever think of that again after....’ Elrohir threw his hand out as if to ward off a blow. He turned his steel-grey eyes upon Elladan, hard, unforgiving as Elladan never saw them turned upon himself. 

Elladan reached out a hand to stay him. ‘I did not mean...I did not mean you desire him. I meant nothing...’

He stopped and breathed in. Elrohir’s furious Power roiled over him, swirling round him like a cloak, red, deep red, and so dark in places it was purple like a bruise. And that was where the pain and hurt was...

Elladan closed his eyes, let the furious anger and pain wash over him. Gently he let his own blue peace settle and slowly push away the furious pain of his brother.

‘Ah, Elrohir. I do not wish to hurt you,’ he said penitently. ‘I wish only to see you at peace.’

‘There is no peace for me,’ Elrohir said violently but Elladan knew the hurt was raw and tender. 

‘I wish you did not punish yourself so hard,’ he said, not looking at Elrohir. ‘Mother would hate to see you so miserable.’

Elrohir did not speak. It seemed almost as if any words would choke him. Instead he whirled away and strode into the dusk. ‘I will scout,’ he threw back over his shoulder and Elladan thought sadly that in truth Elrohir simply wanted to get away from him, from his concern and from his love. Miserably he prodded at the fire and then he too rose and stood between the horses, rubbed their soft noses as they nudged him in concern.

 

0o0o

 

The Moon rose so brightly it cast shadows. Elrohir looked back to check their small fire could not be seen and was relieved that he could be alone out here in the slopes and foothills of the Mountains, and he did not yet have to face Her.

He cringed at the way he had spoken to his sweet brother, and felt the familiar surge of love for him, that wanted to protect him and only see him happy.

But happiness is beyond us now, he thought. For I am ruined beyond repair and I will destroy him with my wretchedness.. 

He strode up a steep scree slope, feeling the loose stones shift and slide under his feet and then was on a ridge where the stars were hard and bright and close. His breath frosted in the air and the piercing cold cleared his head. He glanced back down into the hollow where Elladan tended the horses; he could see dimly his shape where Elladan stood between Barakhir and Baraghur. They dipped their noses towards him.

He hated himself for upsetting Elladan. But he was all nervous energy and fury charged through his blood. He could not sleep, could not rest…how he hated these mountains. Everywhere he looked, he saw his sweet, beloved mother turning from him screaming, raking her nails down the side of his face as he brought her out, writhing in his arms, desperate to get away from him… as if it were he that had…

No. He would not think on it. He could not bear it. How many times had he sat in the darkness and slid dark Aícanaro from his sheath and slipped the point over his wrist…just there where the pulse banged and pumped. A small nick, slide it along the artery. It would be quick, almost painless compared with the endless torment and wrenching pain in his heart now… but Aícanaro would not draw his master’s blood. It was in the sword’s lore. The sword slipped from his hand, turned sideways so the flat was against his skin. As if sentient and unwilling to lose one that gave him so much blood. 

It is the One Ring that makes me worse, he told himself desperately. It is that Mirkwood Elf who beyond belief, had let Sméagol go after all the trouble it gave Aragorn. It was one of those irrational dislikes that provoked him. It was the way he cut a glance across at you, provocative and timid at the same time, wary like a wild thing that lures you in and then savages you. It was his cornsilk hair that lifted in the wind, the stretch of his tunic across his broad shoulders, the strange green-gold light that seemed to infuse the air when he was near. It was his straight nose and high cheekbones, his full mouth that begged to be bruised...

He became aware of himself stiffening and bulging and shook his head. Surely he did not think this of the Elf? Was Elladan closer than he had realised with his question? Was that why he was so angry when he saw Legolas with Berensul?

No. 

No, it was not desire. That was neither acceptable nor the truth, he told himself. No, it was the familiar violence that made him swell; his only lust was for violence. His only desire for blood and revenge and violence. He had not had a woman since their mother was returned to them bloody and torn and mad. He had not even taken himself, or another, in hand...for the smell... the smell on her thighs was the same that he smelled on himself at release...The smell of Orc was the same as his own.

He gagged and squeezed closed his eyes, clenched his fist around Aícanaro and felt it coil pleasurably... wanting blood... wanting more... Have you not yet had your fill? he asked the dark sword, but of himself as well and knew he had not. Never. 

Elrohir turned his back to the looming, overwhelming mountains and looked out into the vastness of the Night. Stars were hard and bright and the air was bitter. The familiar despair settled on his chest. A black shroud that seemed to wrap itself about him, thin, cold. There was no escape. None.

‘Are you listening?’ he whispered to the Dark, feeling for Her. There was a stir of air and he smiled thinly and filled his head with the vilest images so that she recoiled…Except she did not for she had seen worse. She was never shocked. And there was a strange comfort in that.

 

O0o0o

 

Their breath smoked in the bitter cold air of the morning as they trotted slowly between the dark pines, hoof beats muted by the pine needles that covered the ground. Elrohir had returned as light grew, his dark mood ruthlessly suppressed. He had clasped Elladan’s shoulder when he roused him, held out a cup with hot tea in it.

Elladan had sipped at the tin cup and felt the scalding of his mouth bring him awake, letting the shadows of night and dreams that clung to him slip away. Except they did not. 

‘I dreamed of Erestor last night,’ he said. It had been a troubling dream, full of danger, shadows crowded around Erestor and clung to him. There was an emptiness in him that frightened Elladan. It stayed with him when he awoke. Elladan felt his chest tighten still more and a nervous prickling stroked his neck. 

‘Erestor?’ Elrohir looked at him suddenly and in surprise. He threw the rest of his own tea onto the fire and met Elladan’s gaze. He did not ask what Elladan felt. 

Above them a bird of prey spiraled upwards on the warm air currents.

Elrohir looked back along the mountain trail. ‘Should we go back?’ he asked.

Their eyes met in silence. Each read the other’s shifting thoughts; concern, duty, loyalty. And then there was the Ring. 

‘We go on then,’ Elladan said quietly but he felt the unease deepen. ‘To the Wood.’

‘We will stay long enough to deliver our messages and rest the horses.’ Elrohir looked intently and with concern at Elladan.

Elladan nodded. ‘Erestor rode with Elrond to the High Pass.’

Baraghur gave a soft whinny, shifted uneasily, and shook his head. Elladan rose and smoothed his neck until he quieted. 

‘Is it father too?’ 

Elladan shook his head. 

‘We will reach the Wood easily by dusk. We will return the following day if Barakhir and Baraghur are ready.’

 

0o0o

 

It was winter and yet the leaves clung still to the silver trees. The air was still, and so silent. Elladan always felt it was like being in snow for the sounds seemed absorbed and the world seemed watchful, waiting. The peace always soothed him but he watched Elrohir from the corner of his eye and saw how his brother’s fingers were tight on the reins and that Barakhir tossed his head and side-stepped though Elrohir was still, his face set like stone. But his mouth was a thin line of tension.

The leaves of the mallorn trees were golden though it was winter and the world was turned to sleep. The March Wardens they knew were there barely stirred as they passed and Elladan merely lifted a hand in greeting. They were not challenged. 

They did not dismount but splashed through the river Celebrant although it was so bitter-cold that Baraghur baulked at it at first, and then surged through the cold and up the other bank and stood, shaking himself dry. Frost laced the golden mallorn trees in the pale winter sunlight, silver against gold. 

They entered the Naith of Lorient that lay like a spearhead between the arms of Silverlode and the Great River, Anduin. Their horses were tired and knowing they were almost at their destination, they let their heads drop and plodded wearily the last few miles. 

At last, as the sun slipped below the trees and long layers of cloud streaked the sky, they reached Caras Galadhon. They rode along the white-paved road that ran in a great circle, with the deep fosse on their left, lost in soft shadow, but the grass upon its brink was green, as if it glowed still in memory of the sun that had gone. Upon the other side of the fosse there rose to a great height a green wall encircling a green hill thronged with huge mallorn-trees. Their height could not be guessed, but they stood up in the twilight like living towers. In their many-tiered branches and amid their ever-moving leaves countless lights were gleaming, green and gold and silver.

The city climbed up like a green cloud upon their left; and as the night deepened more lights sprang forth, until all the hill seemed afire with stars. They came at last to a white bridge, and crossing found the great gates of the city: they faced south-west, set between the ends of the encircling wall that here overlapped, and they were tall and strong, and hung with many lamps. Far away up on the hill they could hear the sound of singing falling from on high like soft rain upon leaves.*

At last they came to the Fountain. Silver lamps swung from the boughs of trees and the sound of water mingled with the many voices that sang distantly, ethereally around them. They saw the shadows and shapes of the Elves who lived here and many stared with open curiosity at the Sons of Thunder. Some raised their hands in greeting or called out and Elladan acknowledged each one. But Elrohir rode on proud and silent. His mouth was a thin line and Elladan knew he hated the strange, dreamy quality of Lorien. It was suspended in time, he said, like a boulder in a river when the world was changing all around them. But though he would not admit it, Elladan knew he loved it too. He could not help it. 

Upon the south side of the lawn there stood the mightiest of all the trees; its great smooth bole gleamed like grey silk, and up it towered, until its first branches, far above, opened their huge limbs under shadowy clouds of leaves.* Here they would leave their horses so they could ascend the stairways and bridges to greet their grandparents. Elrohir was already on the ground and unbuckling Barakhir’s saddle. Barakhir turned his head and rubbed against Elrohir affectionately, urging him to be quicker and Elrohir smiled as he so rarely did and quickly slid off the bridle and then lifted the saddle from Barakhir’s back. Elladan followed suit and Baraghur plunged his nose into the fountain and drank deeply. 

‘I will take them,’ Elrohir volunteered, and after the horses had drunk their fill, he clucked to them both and they followed him along a narrow path where they knew a stable and feed awaited them.

Elladan sat on the edge of the Fountain and looked into the water. Above him the lights of Caras Galadhon gleamed like stars and voices drifted around him. He thought this must be like Menegroth had been those long ages ago with the night soft above him and the Power of Galadriel that, like Malian’s Girdle, cocooned Lorien against the shadows without.

There was a clatter of footsteps and he turned, thinking it was Elrohir but wondering why he was so loud. But it was not Elrohir. It was Haldir, the March-Warden of the West Approach, hurrying down the wide steps towards him, hastily tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair. He did not see Elladan at first and his expression was one of harried, excited anxiety. Elladan rose to his feet to greet Haldir for he knew him a little, but, liked him less; he found the March Warden aloof and rather haughty for one not highly born. Elladan himself did not put on airs and disliked it in others. But Haldir was clearly preoccupied and in haste, his handsome face was flushed with excitement.

Suddenly Haldir looked up and seeing Elladan, stopped abruptly, His eyes widened and his lips parted as if he were overjoyed at seeing Elladan. He gazed at Elladan as if he could not quite believe he were there.

‘My lord! I did not see you there...’ he said breathlessly, 

Elladan blinked and did not quite know what to say for he had had less that three of four encounters with Haldir and all of those brief and cursory. Seeing Elladan’s hesitation, the excitement seemed to drain from Haldir and he let his head drop. He murmured almost inaudibly, ‘I would have come sooner had I known.’ He glanced up quickly again at Elladan.

Elladan returned Haldir’s gaze blankly for he did not know what Haldir expected. Slowly Haldir’s expression changed and he seemed to crumple. He reached out again but this time, almost pleadingly. ‘I ask nothing of you, my lord, but a little hope,’ he said softly.

Elladan blinked. ‘Hope? Forgive me Haldir, I do not understand you.’

For a moment, Haldir stared at Elladan uncomprehending, and then he stepped back, his proud mask in place and that haughty mouth a straight line, tight. ‘My lord Elladan! Forgive me I thought...’

Elladan shook his head and smiled. ‘It is forgotten, my friend.’ He realised now that the conversation was not meant for him but Elrohir. ‘My brother is with our horses and will return soon.’

‘Of course, my lord. I should have realised.’ Haldir bowed slightly, once again the supercilious Elf that Elladan recognized. 

‘Did you wish to speak with him?’ Elladan asked kindly. Though he had never much liked Haldir, he would not wish such a difficult path for anyone. And in Lorien, they held the Laws* close indeed. And he needed more than Hope if he wished to win Elrohir’s attention, let alone his angry, bitter heart.

‘I merely wished to greet you both,’ Haldir said and bowed slightly. ‘And tell you that my lady is waiting.’ 

‘Then she will wait,’ another voice joined them. Elrohir. Both turned to see his tall, strong figure striding towards them along the path between the great silver trunks of the mallorn trees. His sable cloak swirled around him and dark Aícanaro rode against his black-clad thigh as he walked. His long black hair gleamed in the silver light. Black and silver. He looked dramatic, powerful, dangerous. Elladan smiled inwardly. No wonder Haldir caught his breath.

‘My lord!’ Haldir it seemed could not help himself thought Elladan mildly amused, for Haldir surged forwards and looked as though he would drop on his knees before Elrohir. But Elrohir’s grey eyes barely flickered over the Marchwarden.

‘Do you need to eat first? Rest?’ Elrohir asked Elladan, deliberately provocative, deliberately snubbing Haldir. 

Elladan caught his eye, disapproving.. ‘Galadriel will feed us I am sure,’ he replied. 

Elrohir’s mouth curled ever so slightly. ‘Then come,’ he said, deliberately ignoring Haldir. ‘There is nothing here to keep us.’ He turned and strode swiftly towards the wide silver wooden steps that curled around the greatest mallorn tree. 

Elladan glanced awkwardly at the Marchwarden. Haldir stood, cheeks flushed with humiliation, but he gazed after Elrohir as if he were starving. An edge of pity struck Elladan and he gave a slight nod to Haldir, who looked away, ashamed of having given away such secret desire. Elladan felt a sudden intense pity for in Lorien the Laws were strict and Elrohir would never spare even a glance for Haldir.

Elladan followed Elrohir, but more slowly, and glanced behind him once to see that Haldir walked away, back stiff and head high. Not one to suffer such a rejection well, thought Elladan.

He slowly climbed the wide silver-wood steps, studying as he walked the carved curlicues and swirls, intricate designs even as he had as a child and he found a strange comfort in it. Woven between the abstract shapes and swirls was the white fire circle and sun of Galadriel, and the tree and horn device of Celeborn. He was suddenly reminded of the inked markings on Legolas’ body and thought how the Silvan Elves had more curls and curves than the angular Noldor.

He climbed the wide, silver-wood steps that wound about the huge tree and went up and up until the stars seemed huge and close, and emerged on a wide talan that was so much part of the tree that not even elvish eyes could see where the tree ended and the carving began. It merged into one sweeping, organic sculpture. And at the centre, awaiting them was Galadriel.

She stood in a silver light that seemed to emanate from her. Her long white dress swept behind her and Nenya flashed once upon her hand. 

She was there. In their minds. And her thoughts flashed over them, swift as light. And was gone. She knew everything. 

He felt Elrohir tight and angry beside him at what he would see as an invasion.

‘Do you have what you want now?’ Elrohir demanded furiously, his fists were clenched.

Galadriel’s smile was as sad as it was beautiful. ‘No. That is long gone,’ she said.

He was still stiff and angry when Celeborn arrived. ‘Welcome, children!’ He hugged them, dragged Elladan first and then an unwilling Elrohir into his embrace. He threw back his head and laughed loudly with rare joy. ‘Tell me of your journey,’ he demanded. ‘And give me news from Imladris, not the official news though, boys, tell me the gossip in the guardroom and barracks. Tell me what battles you have fought and what journeys you have been on.’ He did not reproach them for their long, long absence. His deep resonant voice filled the void of their collective loss with nonsense.

At last Elrohir softened and suddenly he let his shoulders drop. Elladan felt the moment his crimson fury subsided. As if he felt it too, Celeborn drew Elrohir’s head down to rest upon his shoulder. He smoothed Elrohir’s hair and murmured softly. ‘Hush child. I know.’ 

They had talked first of small news, their journey, Arwen. And then Elladan had told them Elrond’s message, given them Gandalf’s news. He was serious as he told them for it was momentous and changed the world. But he watched his grandfather flick a careful and anxious glance at Galadriel, and her calm acceptance as if she knew. But beneath her serenity, Elladan sensed too something else; anticipation?

Later, in their talan, which was as rich and luxurious as their own rooms on Imladris, Elladan asked his silent brother, ‘What is there between you and Haldir?’

Elrohir raised startled eyes but looked away just as quickly. ‘Nothing,’ he said curtly. 

Elladan raised an eyebrow and slowly twirled his dagger between his fingers, watching the flash of light on the runes, the star and M intertwined. He said nothing but waited, knowing that Elrohir would either wish to tell him everything or he would stay completely silent and more subtle means would be needed.

Elrohir turned onto his side and pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. ‘I will not speak more, Elladan, so go to sleep.’

 

0o0o0

* Laws and Customs of the Eldar; Tolkien’s Laws and Customs among the Eldar" — Several essays and legends on the Eldar, particularly marriage and naming customs of the Elves, and Tolkien's conceptions of the soul and body. There is a noticeable point made about sex being clearly for procreation and for my purposes I have adopted this as a belief of the Imladrian elves- but by no means all of them think this, the powerful majority do. So relationships that do not lead to marriage are frowned upon in my version of Imladris. My reference makes the point that in the past, Elrohir had given no regard or importance to the Laws and yet here he is showing disgust for Berensul’s rather frivolous attitude towards relationships and sex.

 

Sorry about the long wait. Only a few chapters left of this one I think and to make up for the wait, another chapter is ready to post nice and quick.


	25. The Fellowship of the Ring

Beta: the wonderful Anarithilen of course.

Chapter 25: The Fellowship of the Ring.

Far away in Imladris, Berensul led Legolas along winding stony paths between the fading roses that were finally, it seemed, turning brown in the winter and dropping petals onto the path. Legolas followed because Berensul had been so insistent and he could not think of a way not to do as he asked. At last they came to a small terrace amongst the lawns and roses. There was a stone bench on it and it looked out over the deep gorge of the Bruinen and above them the Mountains loomed. Legolas felt it was a spectacular but not a comfortable view. He felt suddenly homesick for the Wood, for the beech trees and oaks, and the small forest river that gurgled rather than roared as did the Bruinen.

'I have missed you,' Berensul said, turning to him at last. His eyes were bright with excitement and Legolas winced inwardly. He had changed, he felt different. Something in him had shifted on the journey to Phellanthir but he could not say what. It is the poison, he reminded himself. I am still sick with it.

'Legolas,' said Berensul, and his fingers twisted in a long lock of pale gold hair, tugged gently so that Legolas lifted his eyes to Berensul's face.

'I am not supposed to go out of the garden,' he said, hiding behind the convenience of illness. 'Limnauth will not let me out again if she finds me gone.' Still, he sat on the stone bench beside Berensul and looked down at his feet. His boots were looking worn and scuffed, he thought. Scruffy. Not like any Prince, not even of Mirkwood. He had not felt like this in the Wild.

'Oh, I can persuade Limnauth to look the other way. Do not fear,' Berensul boasted softly, and he cupped his hand round Legolas' neck, drawing him towards him.

Legolas blinked and pulled back. 'You cannot mean you will seduce her too?' he asked, a little shocked.

Berensul laughed again. 'Of course not! But there are other ways I can persuade her to do as I wish.'

Legolas liked Limnauth; she had looked after him. 'You will not hurt her, or get into any trouble,' he said sternly.

Berensul smiled and pulled him close. 'I missed you.' Berensul leaned in and softly pressed his lips against Legolas'. ' I swear to you I will do nothing to harm Limnauth. Does that please you?' He pushed his tongue easily between Legolas' lips. 'I wish only to please you,' he murmured. 'I know this is just pleasure. Nothing more.'

Legolas said nothing but the sensation of warmth on his mouth was sweet and he was a little lonely. And so easily roused.

Berensul stroked his hair back from his face. 'I have thought often of our love-making. The night you left…' His breath stroked Legolas' ear and he shivered with delight at the tingling sensation, the stroke of desire along his cock. He felt himself stiffen. But he did not want this now and looked away, struggling to control himself.

Berensul whispered against his neck, let his hand drift along his thigh. 'Do you not want me anymore?'

Sighing, Legolas took his hand and evaded his gaze. 'It is not that I do not want you,' he said slowly. 'I do. I have enjoyed being with you.' He chewed his lip anxiously, wondering how to say this for he wanted to be honest but he did not want to hurt Berensul for he had been kind when Legolas first arrived in Imladris. No matter that Berensul's motive for kindness had been to seduce Legolas, no matter that he had lied to do so. 'You have Elemé though,' Legolas said finally. 'And I find it difficult to love… when the other's heart is already taken.'

Berensul drew back a little and looked at Legolas. His eyes were bright and his long dark hair gleamed in the pale winter sunlight. He looked down at Legolas' hand in his. 'I am not a fool,' he said. He gave a quick, tight smile. 'It is not my heart but yours that is taken. I know not who has taken it in such a short time and in the Wild, but I see it in your eyes.'

Legolas stared at him in astonishment. 'That is not true!' he protested.

Berensul shook his head and lifted Legolas' hand to his lips, pressed a kiss against his palm. 'I cannot think who, but I see it as clearly as if you had written it. But I hope you will realise that not one of them you rode with would return your love. Though Erestor would take your body if you offered….'

Legolas pulled his hand away in shock. His heart taken? 'No! That is not true!' he said again.

Berensul cocked his head and peered at Legolas. 'You are smitten,' he said. 'It is not Aragorn for I watched the way you were with him when you arrived. And it is not Amron for you were the same with him, but you looked strangely at Saeldir and he at you. Be careful of him. He will not appreciate any advances. But my true guess is Glorfindel.' He gave Legolas a sideways glance and his bright eyes were merry and he smiled saucily. 'You would certainly not be the first. Or the last! Though you are very fair of face and honourable and brave. Who could not love you?' He reached up and touched Legolas' smooth cheek. 'Glorfindel is kind but his heart is ice. Many have tried to melt it and none have succeeded. You will not win him.'

Legolas looked away and in doing so, moved away from Berensul's hand. 'I am not…' He paused. He was not in love with Glorfindel, he knew. But he did admire him. He frowned. Why would Berensul say his heart was taken when it clearly had not been? 'I admire Glorfindel of course,' he protested. 'Who could not? But he is so far above me. I could not think of him in that way.' He did not say he had tried. That night he had been hard and rigid with the fever, he had tried to think of Glorfindel and found he could not; it seemed almost a sacrilege. Instead he had found relief in images of….of….And then it struck him.

Elrohir. His lips parted and he tore his gaze from Berensul.

'I see you have remembered something,' Berensul said shrewdly. He smiled gently. 'He does not know, whoever it is. I see that. You did not know until now, I see that too.'

Legolas pushed himself to his feet and took three strides away from the bench. He could not speak.

He remembered his first sight of Elrohir, striding out of the western sun, burning with power.

…A long window looked west at the end of the passage and the sun flooded through, blinding him. Legolas walked hesitantly towards it and the wide stone staircase that swept around and down towards the Hall of Fire when he thought the air shifted and the Song changed. His felt his blood thrum and his heart suddenly pounded in his chest.

His feet faltered and he stopped, leaned against the cold stone and let his head rest back against the wall .

Was there the scent of snow, clean and cold on the mountains? And high, high above he thought he heard an eagle cry... a deep rhythm pounded in his veins, drums beating like a heart, a strong heart, noble, and a crimson light flooded the air around him. Warmth and heat caressed him.

He turned again towards the long window and lifted his head to stare at a warrior who strode towards him it seemed out of the setting sun - long raven-black hair like silk worn loose and flowing, he was tall and broad shouldered, a swordsman not an archer, light on his feet and clad in black leather close to his skin. His grey eyes stared straight ahead and he barely registered Legolas, simply strode past, but the light, the air, surged about Legolas and he felt time had slowed and his destiny approached...and passed. He turned, lips parted and eyes wide, staring after the warrior...and the crimson power surged around him, ebbed with his passing and left Legolas breathless and limp.

The warrior turned his head after he had passed as if Legolas had called to him, and his eyes were wide and starlit grey. He stared but he did not stop, and turned away again.

Legolas reached out to steady himself against the stone sill of the window and leaned his forehead against the cold wall, breathing hard.

He felt like steadying himself now for the dizziness the image invoked in him. He paused, thought about it for a moment and another image thrust itself at him: the glorious sight of Elrohir riding down the Orcs in the skirmish on the banks of the Bruinen.

… sunlight flashing on silver armour and sable cloak swirling round him, long night-silk hair streaming in the wind as he charged the Orcs upon his black steed, blood on his lip, a smear on his cheek, eyes bright and gleaming.

And later when he found Legolas' arrow in the impaled Orc, standing furiously over him so Legolas thought he might fall upon him and ravish him in his fury…He closed his eyes and he found himself stiffening. After all, it was Elrohir he saw when he had tried to relieve himself of the dreadful pounding lust that possessed him during the fever. It was Elrohir he imagined leaning against him, pressing him into the ground, and pushing his tongue as deeply as he could, wanting to fill, to plunge into his mouth and Legolas had seen himself willingly opening for him, sucking him in, tongue pushing back. Elrohir plunging downwards, raking into Legolas' body, wrestling him to the ground and stripping him bare. Legolas saw himself sprawled beneath Elrohir in disgraceful abandon, wantonly subdued and Elrohir himself plunging into him.

But Elrohir looked at him with nothing but contempt and fury since he had put that Orc out of its misery. He sighed. Even before that, Elrohir had spoken of him, looked at him in a dismissive way as if he were of no more consequence than the mud on his boot.

How could he feel desire?

No, he told himself. This was just a passing lust. It was the fever. It was the poison in his blood. Hero worship combined with the poison had made him throb with desire, for he had always admired the Sons of Thunder, dreamed of meeting them as much as he had dreamed of meeting Glorfindel. But whereas meeting Glorfindel was everything he had dreamed and more, Elrohir was a jealous, angry, cruel and unpleasant man, he decided. And he would not care if he never set eyes upon him again.

'It is not love,' Legolas said firmly. 'Lust maybe…' He looked at his worn boots again. Yes. It was the fever and poison. He never wanted to even see Elrohir again. A little misery slipped into his heart and telling himself that it was disappointment that his hero despised him, he ruthlessly squashed it.

As if he sensed Legolas' thoughts, Berensul stroked Legolas' hand with his thumb. 'You are not well enough to leave so you will stay until the Spring.' He said it as if it had been told him. 'We can be friends,' he said.

Legolas raised his head. 'I cannot stay until the Spring. I am needed. I will go South to Caradhras or the Gap of Rohan to make my way home.'

Berensul stole a look at him. 'Can you not relent? Surely they can spare you until the spring? Who is it you love?'

Legolas shook his head and turned to Berensul. 'It is true that there are those amongst our troop whom I found I could desire, but it was only the poison. And Aragorn says this particular poison has that after-effect. So my heart is definitely not taken.'

Berensul smiled teasingly then. 'It must be my lord, Glorfindel, then. Everyone is at least half in love with him. How could you not be?' He sighed.

Legolas laughed for it was close enough and he could escape all thoughts of Elrohir this way. 'He is above all of that. I do not think he even thinks such base thoughts.'

'I might steal a kiss from him if I could,' Berensul replied, grinning. And suddenly all the ease of their friendship returned and Legolas remembered how Berensul had looked after him, and his kindness. And Legolas himself had not been truthful either for he concealed his status, and Berensul had forgiven him as he should forgive Berensul his lie. He turned and smiled at Berensul.

'Let us be friends then,' he said decisively and immediately Berensul leaned in for a kiss. At first Legolas pulled back, but Berensul cupped the back of his head and pulled him close. And he had a wicked tongue so Legolas, feeling himself rock hard again and wanting another's hand on him, let him.

'You still have your old room,' Berensul said breathlessly. 'Go there as if you want something from your room and I will see you there… two minutes.' Then he looked at Legolas and added, 'I know this is what it is. Nothing more.'

Legolas stared at him, at Berensul's long, black hair and a flicker of images ran unbidden through his mind and left him breathless. He shook himself free of them; it is poison and fever, he reminded himself. It is Berensul who is here.

Berensul leaned towards him and cupped his face, stroked his thumb over Legolas' mouth. 'Come, Legolas,' he said and his eyes were very bright and his mouth warm. Legolas felt a pounding desire and knew he was weak, knew he should resist… but he did not really know quite why…

'Elemé?' he remembered suddenly, pulling back.

'Has a fickle heart,' Berensul replied shortly and turned away quickly. Legolas caught his hand.

'What happened?'

'I caught her out, with another.'

Legolas smiled and shook his head. 'Has this happened before?' he asked wryly. 'Is this not what you have done with me?'

Berensul looked at him angrily. 'No…' Then looked down. 'Maybe…'

'Maybe it has happened before or maybe this is why you are seducing me?' Legolas asked.

Berensul looked down at the ground. 'It is not why I am seducing you. And I am not really seducing you, Legolas. You are seducing me!'

Legolas laughed a little and then persisted, 'And how many times have you caught Elemé out?'

'Maybe three times…or four. It could be twice each.'

Legolas laughed loudly and then coughed for it still hurt in his chest. 'You have each found the other with someone else? Twice?' he asked slightly incredulously. 'Surely you cannot be hurt now?'

'She was with Lindir, the minstrel, to get back at me for sleeping with you.' Berensul looked miserable and hung his head. He picked at the lichen miserably so that Legolas (who had often frustrated his father and amused his brothers by bringing home various injured or weak animals, insects and reptiles to be 'nursed' back to strength, and was as soft-hearted as he was deadly) sighed.

'You are in love with Elemé? Truthfully?'

Berensul would not look up and picked even more intently at lichen that grew on the stone bench. He nodded once and Legolas asked, mildly bemused, 'Why do you dally with me then?'

Berensul looked at him then, a little incredulously and opened his mouth to speak but Legolas, knowing that it may well be lies that came from Berensul's mouth, shook his head and smiled slightly, and put his finger against Berensul's lips. 'My friend, I think you should not toy with me further for my patience grows thin. Go and find Elemé. Tell her you have refused me because you love her and that you have left me quite heart-broken and forlorn. I will act accordingly if she should see me.'

He smiled again, and though he did not know it, Berensul was captivated all over again at his sweetness.

'Go,' said Legolas, shoving him gently and smiling. 'Go to Elemé and tell her you are a fool.'

Berensul leaned in again, quite hopelessly and Legolas laughing, shoved him away. 'Go! I will not dally with you any further! If you stay I will be forced to tie you up and leave you for Erestor!' He pushed himself to his feet and took three strides away from Berensul and then turned, one hand raised palm up to stop Berensul from following. 'You are wasting your time with me, Berensul. Go!'

Berensul gave him a lingering look and would, Legolas was sure, have followed him but heavy steps came from behind them, in the direction of the House, and a Man walked towards them, head down and a pensive expression on his strong face. Boromir suddenly looked up and looked startled, his eyes darting first to Berensul and then to Legolas.

A surprised smile lit up Boromir's face when he saw it was Legolas. 'Legolas! I thought you must have returned to Mirkwood!' He nodded to Berensul, who gave one last look towards Legolas, full of lingering desire.

'Go,' he said firmly and turned back to Boromir, deliberately ignoring Berensul now.

Legolas greeted Boromir warmly for he was pleased to see him and had wondered why he had not seen the Man. 'No I am still here as you see. I have been delayed,' he said.

'Well I for one am glad of it,' Boromir declared and clapped him on the shoulder.

Legolas winced and dipped his shoulder away from Boromir's grasp for the pain was shocking and he had thought it almost healed. 'I have been recovering from an injury,' he explained apologetically.

'I have hurt you?' Boromir was mortified and clasped Legolas gently by the arm to steady him. He looked him and up and down in concern. 'How did that happen?'

'I was careless,' Legolas said dismissively, still disgusted with himself and for his own stupidity. 'An Orc blade nicked me, it was coated in a poison, and I did not even know.'

'It happens,' Borormir said generously. He sat beside Legolas where Berensul had sat only moments ago and stared out across the plunging river to the Mountains that loomed overhead. 'I have been near death myself from a wound that I allowed to fester. My captain beat me soundly for it once I had recovered.' He gave a short laugh and Legolas stared at him in disbelief.

'Surely you jest? He beat you?'

'It does not matter.' But Legolas thought there was hurt in the Man's voice and thought that it did matter, but Boromir had as little a wish to pursue it as he had of being asked about his own wound.

'Tell me of your quest against the muster of Orcs in the High Pass,' he asked instead for he was curious and now that he was healing, he wanted to start planning his journey home. He needed to know if the High Pass was closed to him.

Boromir shoved his hands under his thighs and shivered, pulling his thick heavy cloak about his shoulders more tightly. Legolas was not wearing a cloak at all although their breath frosted on the air.

'Well everything I thought of the Elves has been turned on its head,' Boromir confessed as though he had forgotten that Legolas was an Elf. 'They fight like nothing I have ever seen before. They are more agile and more swift that any Man I have ever seen and they can hit anything at a distance with greater accuracy.'

Legolas listened less to the words than to the manner of the telling; it was like receiving a report from a captain and he could not understand every word for Boromir's accent was strange, overly pronounced and a little nasal. It was clear that Boromir was impressed with the campaign, as he analysed the moves and actions of the Imladrian army approvingly. Legolas found himself intrigued and infected by Boromir's interest. The Man described the great prowess of both Elrond and Erestor, but he spoke reverently too of Gandalf, his great sword Glamdring and the staff he wielded that was of fire.

'It will be an honour to walk with Gandalf into Mordor to destroy the Ring,' Boromir concluded and Legolas thought how strong and noble Boromir was, that he was but a Man with such a short life, and yet willingly walked into such a place of death. 'And from what you say, Legolas, Gimli too is a doughty warrior. I feel comforted to have such company.' He turned and looked at Legolas. 'And what of you? Will you return to your Wood and continue your fight against the Shadow?'

'Yes.' Legolas sighed. 'But from what you say the High Pass is closed and too risky now, even though you vanquished the Orc army. As you say, they retreated into the mountains and Elrond dared not follow. I am not such a fool to take the risk. I will seek the Redhorn Pass which will be clear, and come down on the other side, take the road North along the edge of the Wood.' But even as he said this, he felt a thrill of fear that he would be alone on the edge of the Southern Wood.

'Then your path follows ours surely?'

'It does,' Legolas replied doubtfully. 'But your mission is so secret that I do not think Gandalf will welcome taggers along.'

'I do not think anyone would think of you as a tagger-along!' Boromir laughed and Legolas thought it a rich, warm laugh. He decided he liked Boromir very much. 'You would add to our number and be welcome, by some of us at least. Perhaps you should ask him,' Boromir continued. 'He is fond of you and surely he owes you safe passage at least since it was at his bidding that you kept this Gollum who seems to have wrought so much evil in your Wood. Why do you not ask him?'

Legolas pulled at one of his braids, thinking about it. He would certainly be happier travelling over the Mountains in company and there was not one of the company so far that he did not like and respect. Perhaps that was not such a foolish idea. And perhaps they would be glad of his bow. He admitted too that he was sad at the thought of parting with his new friends and simply letting them go off into such mortal peril without doing anything to ease their path in any way that he could.

Gimli the Dwarf was with you, was he not?' Boromir asked. 'He is chosen as one of the companions to the Ringbearer. So there is now Frodo himself, Gandalf, Gimli, Aragorn and me. I wonder who else will go.'

'Sam,' Legolas spoke with absolute conviction. 'He will not be parted from Frodo. And Merry and Pippin are his cousins and have got him this far. I cannot see that they would be willing to turn aside now.'

'Really?' Boromir turned to look at him in surprise. 'Surely Mordor is no place for Hobbits? Elrond will send them both home, will he not?'

Legolas shrugged and looked off into the distance. 'They faced the Nine and did not abandon Frodo or the Ring. That deed alone is worthy of song.' He smiled with affection for his new friends and realised why his father had such deep respect for Bilbo. 'I do not think they will go home when Frodo faces such peril.' Beneath the gentle humour and kindness, he thought, was a steel and resolve that was unusual, and a loyalty that was rare indeed. He smiled. 'Sam will never leave Frodo's side. If the world came to an end around them, he would not leave.'

'Then there is but one place in the Company left to fill,' Boromir said. They looked out over the Bruinen and it poured and rushed over the mountain rocks and boulders like some sleek animal. 'It will be Glorfindel surely?'

Legolas murmured agreement.

'Or perhaps Elrond's sons?'

Legolas said nothing. That would change everything. He did not think Elrohir would welcome his company, whether it was travelling over the mountains or walking through a garden. And he was not sure if he wanted to be within miles of the compelling, violent, intense warrior. Son of Thunder indeed.

0o0o0o

Gandalf sat easily in a wide chair that was well padded and comfortable. For the first time in quite a while he felt in control of things and puffed on his long clay pipe with pleasure. Beside him was Gimli Gloinsson, for whom he had always had a soft spot, remembering how he had clamoured to join the Quest for Erebor though he was far too young. But Gandalf had seen a spark in him that called to something in him too, and when Gimli walked in through the doors of Imladris, another piece clicked into place. Much as the appearance of young Thranduillion, he thought squinting down the length of his pipe to check the pipeweed was sufficiently lit. Meneldor would have delivered Gandalf's message to Thranduil by now, the Wizard thought, and hoped that the Eagle had been sufficiently tactful to ensure Thranduil was not heading this way as fast as a horse, or Eagle, could carry him….

'Hmm.' That had not occurred to him until now. Indeed it was more than likely that one, or indeed all of Thranduil's family were on their way to Imladris to ensure their precious youngest's safe return. No matter, Gandalf mused. They would be gone by then and he had indeed promised Thranduil that he personally would guarantee Legolas' safe passage over the Mountains. And this he knew would be done.

Beyond that, of course, he could not see. In fact, beyond that things got very murky indeed and he was not sure about even his own safety beyond the Mountains…There was a blurring in his foresight. Like everything was seen through smoke. He stared into the middle distance and chewed the end of his pipe… Perhaps Galadriel could see more clearly, he thought.

'Ah, the young rascals!' A voice interrupted his thoughts and he blinked and slowly returned to the present. Gimli had risen to his feet and was looking down into the garden.

Gandalf leaned forwards and saw that Pippin was creeping up on Merry, who sat upon a bench and swung his feet. Frodo had spotted Pippin was keeping his cover but his eyes were bright and laughing.

Even as Pippin leapt upon Merry, two more figures appeared in the garden and Gandalf saw with pleased surprise that it was Boromir and Legolas was with him. The Man looked more at ease than he had all the time he had been in Imladris and Gandalf glanced across the lawns and balconies to where he knew Elrond had been standing, watching the Hobbits. A smile crept over the Wizard's face when he saw the contemplative expression on his old friend's face.

The Company, he thought, was complete.

0o0o0o

Maybe one or two more chapters on this one. Just a reminder that I wrote Deeper than Breathing first, then Sons of Thunder and then this- so although they are chronological, there ARE discrepancies and I had not intended this to be a prequel when I started writing it. Please do let me know if anything sticks out.


	26. The Mirror

Beta: Anarithilien – wonderful, tirelessly generous.

Thank you to all those who reviewed –iiionly, ThisLittlePiggy,Pilvi, Dimaranien, Alanic, EtheleFeanorian,, Freddie, cheekybeak, aerial-whispers, Encairion, Curiouswombat, Spiced Wine, Naledi, Melusine, and of course all those who left kudos on Ao3.

 

Chapter 25: The Mirror 

She knew that Elrohir did not sleep. She felt his restlessness and rose silently from her own bed, pushing her hands through her long hair and as impatiently as Artanis might, shoved it back into a long tail like a warrior. She was quiet for Celeborn had accused her already that she could not leave them alone, and she would not share with him the dreams that troubled and tempted her and truly kept her awake. 

The bright souls standing guard at the Door to the Void…still within reach for One who had the Power…She could roll back Time, change the Past. Bring her daughter home… Elrohir so full of anguish that she could not quite reach, could not quite understand…Eru could not have wanted this, Arda Marred? 

She could not leave it alone. Celeborn said as much earlier, catching her hand he had said, I know what you do. 

‘I know what you do.’

She turned. Celeborn leaned on one elbow watching her. His long silver hair pooled on the white sheets that had slipped down over his strong chest, his flat stomach and showed the beginning of light hair at his groin. He was naked and his blue eyes pierced her with desire. She felt the stab of lust in her womb. The heat of him swelled around her, a complex blue shot through with starlight and love. An erotic heat. But she would not yield. 

Come back. He filled her head with images of them together, his hand on her breast, his mouth on hers, his body hard against her. I know what you seek. Do not. And though he did not speak it, she sensed anxiety, that he might lose more than he could bear. 

When she did not yield to him and come back to bed, he thinned his lips. You are too impatient. 

Is that not why you loved me? She threw back at him.

His eyes flashed with something; recognition. Loved? Do you think I love you no more?

‘No. That is not what I think.’ She bowed her head, for she did feel his love for her. She closed her eyes for a moment and then said, ‘I want to understand.’ 

‘Leave them be,’ he said, rising from the bed but irritably. His cock hung heavy between his thighs. Her body remembered the thickness of it, the weight. ‘Give them some privacy. They are not children,’ he said and shoved aside the thin veil that closed off the starlight. He stood looking out over the treetops, his back to her and the moonlight gleamed in his long silver hair that she had loved but now only reminded her of their daughter. She could not bear it.

‘They are my blood. My flesh.’ The words burst from her.

‘You wish to fill your senses with them!’ He turned towards her then, accusing, ‘You want to absorb the sense of them into your skin, breathe them,’ he said and took two strides to stand before her so close she could feel his breath. His blue eyes pierced her anew and he saw her. Let them be!

‘Yes. That is what I want to do,’ she admitted angrily. ‘Why is that so deserving of your recrimination? I will not intrude! I will not pry into their thought!’ Though she knew she would. And so did he. They are all I have left of her. A wave of agony tore through her like the birth pangs she remembered with vivid clarity; she clung to that pain in her guilt. It made Celebrián real. 

A gasp of shared anguish shot through her breast and he pulled her to him. She fell against him and he kissed her. Not gently, not in remorse or sorrow. But in loss and anger. He crushed her and bruised her mouth, their teeth clashed and her mouth opened under him. Ugly. Demanding. Angry. She did not care either and gripped him with her hands, dug her nails into his neck so he bit down on her. She wanted to hurt him, to rake him with her nails and beat against his chest. Her blood surged and lust flared, the lust that came from anger; she knew it well. Rutting. Not love. Not even sex but some base, bestial urge that came from something deep, buried, that writhed with a furious bitter anger, that keened in her womb…

Until they shoved each other away in despair and shame for their sweet daughter had been ripped apart by the same act. Not the same act, she thought. But close enough that every time they touched, it brought a horror and shame and slowly, slowly killed desire. 

She did not look at him as she shoved past him.

‘I love you,’ he said as she pushed past and pulled away from him. She did not look back. 

You no longer know what that means. 

She felt him recoil from her, and felt the over-familiar burst of contempt, for him. For herself. Cold as the Helcaraxë she was. Hard. Bitter as when she stood upon the shores of Ennor for the first time and the light of the Trees in her eyes, standing with Finrod and Fingon, thin and hard all of them, swearing revenge upon Feänor and his sons. Bitter with cold and loss. Furious at their betrayal and abandonment. Fierce with revenge and lust.

Fingon had sworn to kill Nelyo, beautiful Nelyo, beloved Nelyo. Turgon had said he would help.

Of course, by then Nelyo was already dead, and in his place was Maedhros. As hard and bitter as she…No. Not as bitter at first. But by the end he would have done anything. She was as bitter now. She would do anything to stop the anguish. She would do anything to turn back time and stop her headstrong child from leaving.

She remembered the images in the Mirror too…the iron crown. Elrohir. If she could, she would stop him too. She did not yet know how…but the glimmer of thought suggested itself to her…the answer to everything seemed to be closer and closer. The news her grandsons had brought changed everything. 

She called to them then, sent out shadowed thoughts to her daughter’s sons, softly, a mere suggestion for any command would have her reeling from the onslaught of Elrohir’s disdain, his fury.

It was cold in the shadowed garden. In the dark, the Mirror waited. Its star-blasted surface was blank until she leaned over it and saw her face reflected, as it always was. Clear. Darkened but clear. There were no wounds, no scars this time to show. Not now. Ice maiden. Artanis. Man-woman. She did not care.

The One was found. This time it would be different. This time, it could be Arda Restored. Healed. It could be as they envisaged those long, long ages ago in Aman when Feänor spoke of Ennor as it should be.

She found her hand trembling as she drew Nenya across the glass, awoke it from its slumber. So soon after she had looked into it, its Power was drained, had not had time to replenish. Nenya flared and sparked it, lent it Power. 

The One was on its way here. That was what the Mirror had showed her earlier, she knew now.

The little pinched face appeared almost immediately now. And she knew now that this was the Hobbit, the Ringbearer. Frodo Baggins. He would give her the Ring. She saw it.

And then…

….such Power. Such Curvë! You see it. Want it.

Yes, she agreed. I want that.

To bring her back?

Yes. I would part the threads of Time with the One. 

Even Sauron did not know how to do that but she had learned, the hard lessons, the crushing mastery of the Rings. If she had Narya and Vilya too…she would part the Threads of Time, draw it back…

Change the world…

Yes, she said and felt her fists clench. Change the World. 

You would defy the Valar again? Unrepentant! Exile! 

Yes. She had not cared then and she did not care now. Except she could not return. But the Ring… that gave her Power. I would tear apart the Veil of Aman to bring her back. Bring them ALL back.

All of them. Her bright, glorious brother, her magnificent cousins…And Celebrián. Especially. Her womb constricted, anguish stabbed her. She pressed her fist against her belly.

I would never let her leave.

The voice faded on a whisper, like a sigh, not on her daughter’s name but her brother’s. 

Ahhhh. Findaráto. 

She touched her fingers to her brow and bent over the Mirror, frowned. Surely that inner voice was her own inner secret and desire? 

The Mirror rippled and cleared. Smoke, she realised, drifted across a wide plain and slowly she saw an army drawn up on two hillocks. Men, she thought. Frightened. Determined. Facing death. This was Gondor. This is the future, she realised and the ranks of Men parted and stirred and she saw Elrohir.

He was magnificent. How tall, how beautiful his face, and stern in its nobility. He strode between the frightened and exhausted Men and spoke to them as he passed, so they looked up at him with renewed hope. Ahead of him, almost at the summit of the hill stood a man, no. An Elf. His pale gold hair like a pennant in the wind, a long Galadhrim bow slung across his broad shoulders. Elrohir strode to where the bright archer stood and he looked up at Elrohir’s coming, his face filled with a confused mix of trepidation and a fierce joy, and Elrohir seized him and kissed him fiercely....No, she whispered. Not Elrohir. Such a difficult path. Such barren love, against the Laws. It was not Haldir. Then who?

The Mirror changed again; Elrohir was riding a black horse on a battlefield... A winged terror swooped and tore the black horse to shreds...An iron crown. An iron ring…

She knew she cried aloud then and the Mirror rippled and surged around her and she forced it to still and show her more...but the threads were unravelling and disturbed and she could not bring them back for she was so troubled by what she saw.

No! That will not be his fate! He will never wear an iron crown. Such base metal. Mithril he will wear, a different crown for he is most like me…I would make them kings in their own lands. Gil-Galad would be as nothing compared with our dominion.

Trembling, she drew back, sent a subtle summoning, drawing his attention towards her. It was merely a soft pulse that shivered through him, bringing his feet turning this way and forgetting what he had first intended. Now she would wait.

She arranged herself so her presence was imposing, unassailable. She did not have to wait long for her intrepid, impatient grandson.

Footsteps trod softly on the wet slate steps. Took them each one, slowly as if unwilling. Then Elrohir emerged from the shadows into the moonlight where she stood, Nenya flashed once to remind him who she was and she felt a wave of pain, ripped with the same deep anguish as she. 

His mouth was a thin line of resentment and he glared at her. There was no forgiveness, no empathy for a shared loss. Nothing but fury.

‘Did you think I would not know your summons?’ he spat. 

Almost she smiled. Of course he would know. He was powerful and strong and only his fury blinded him to the possibilities. She tilted her head to look at him better and held out her hand to him. ‘Forgive me this one thing then, Elrohir. The Mirror has things to show you.’

‘The Mirror lies!’ he said with such contempt that she almost stepped back and for a moment he was beyond her control. She felt the rushing charge building of his crimson anger, rage and met it with her own Power, raised a shield against him but it was barely enough. ‘It did not show you your daughter’s fate!’

She sent a wall of ice-blue shattering against him and Power exploded in the garden. Crimson shot through Nenya and Nenya absorbed it, glimmered with purple lights and red falling stars. They fell forever…

Do you think I do not say the same to myself? Do you not think I would give myself to have spared her?

He took a step towards her, imposing, intimidating…except she was Artanis. She had crossed the Ice, faced Morgoth. She had defied the Valar. 

She commanded him. Still thyself. 

And he did. Grey eyes glared at her, mouth a thin line. ‘Why did you let her leave? Why didn’t you know?’ He turned away from her, fists clenched like he wanted to hit her.

You cannot make me feel any worse pain than I feel! She opened up to him and let him feel her anguish, the dreadful, dreadful loss. Pray you never lose a child! 

He staggered back, lips parted, staring.

‘Then show me your damned Mirror,’ he said at last.

She drew him towards the darkened glass and struck Nenya against its edge, cutting the lines across it, parting the darkness that when Elrohir looked within, swirled and was edged with crimson. She could never see what another saw but she saw his face, felt his storm of emotion. His hands gripped the edge of the Mirror at one point and she almost touched him… but he was dangerous and she knew better.

At last he fell back and she watched him, the frightened child beneath the mask of steel, the fear that seized him for a moment. Slowly he composed himself enough to look at her. ‘It only shows what may come to pass,’ he said. And then added grimly,’ This will not come to pass.’ 

‘You saw the Black Gate,’ she said earnestly. ‘Elrohir! You must not go there. You must not go to Mordor.’ She stared up into his grey eyes, dark with turmoil, and said emphatically, ‘They will have you as their own.’

He turned his head so she could not see his face.

But still she stood before him and looked up into his beautiful, impassive face that he had turned away and hid so much pain, so much anguish that he would not share. She pushed gently at the shields he had locked about himself and he flinched.

‘No!’ He threw up a hand to ward her off. ‘Do not look there.’ 

She paused, searching his grief-stricken face. She wished he would look at her, then she could see. For there was more. Far more here than simple grief and guilt…

No!

A wave of crimson surged towards her and she raised her own hand, a shield of ice-blue, so the rage broke against her and washed away harmlessly.

What do you hide in the shadows of your heart? Oh how she yearned to brush away the pain, to stroke his hair as she used to when she found her child crying. But the images in the Mirror tore at her – a dark ring, an iron crown. Shadows crowded around Elrohir, trod at his heels. Fear for him so great it almost made her tremble. The Nazgûl hunted him.

They will know, Elrohir. I know what you saw! They will know and seek you out, find the treasure you hoard and use it against you. ‘ Tell me that I may help you!’ she burst out.

No.

There is nothing so dark that I cannot endure it. I have already seen everything man can do to man.

‘If you do not leave me be,’ he suddenly said through gritted teeth, ‘I swear I will strike you down.’ His eyes turned upon her dark and violent and suddenly he was no longer her grandson; it was the face of one who could slay his own kin. It was the same blood after all, and had not Elrond been raised by kin-slayers? Those wretched sons of Feänor. Her disowned and dispossessed cousins, thrice cursed. She stood strong and straight for she would not be cowed, not then and not now. But he met her gaze without a flinch and she knew she would not penetrate the shield he had locked against her. 

This would accomplish nothing, she knew. And she sighed.

‘I do not wish to anger you,’ she said softly. She wanted to stroke his cheek, to soothe him, but did not dare. ‘I wish to ease your suffering my dear.’ She stepped back then, wondering if she had pushed too far and that Celeborn may have been right. ‘I wish only to put you on your guard against Sauron and his Nazgûl. They will hunt you.’

He was unyielding. His back stiff and straight as hers, his grey eyes did not look away and his face was a mask of steel. She wondered where the little boy had gone; who had run to her holding up muddy hands, dropped butter on her dress, snuggled against her breast with milky softness. Instead here was the Son of Thunder. Nothing to do with Elrond, she thought bitterly. Everything to do with their Finwëan blood.

And then he was gone, the soft sound of his boots on the steps faded into the quiet of the night. She had lost him.

 

0o0o

Elrohir strode from the garden in agitated fury. He was angry with himself for succumbing to the Mirror; on previous visits he had resisted and resisted. And now the images he had seen were baffling, confusing and infuriating.

Oh he had seen the Nazgûl and seen himself before the Black Gates but that was no surprise. He and Elladan had come across Nazgûl in the Wilds and hunted them as they had been hunted themselves; it was part of the cycle of war. But what truly baffled and infuriated him beyond reason was why in all the Hells was Legolas Thranduillion in the Mirror? Why did he have any part in Elrohir’s future? Or a maybe future, he reminded himself fiercely. There had been one image of Legolas standing on the battlements of Minas Tirith – for he recognized it- lost in a rapture with the wind pulling back his long, long hair and a winged shadow falling over him. It roused him beyond reason, and made him so angry that he thought he might hurt someone.

He strode along the winding paths between the silvered trees, unaware of the serene beauty of the night. He hated Lothlorien; it was stuck like a boulder in a river as the world flowed and changed outside, nothing changed here. It was stagnant. She kept it like this because it suited her.

He made for the stables, because to go back to the talan would be to disturb Elladan and he had done that enough in the last few weeks. He always found stables places of peace and restfulness. 

Barakhir nickered softly to him as he entered and Baraghur swung his head over the half door in his direction and intelligent soft eyes watched him. He stroked Barakhir’s velvet nose and the horse snuffed at him, blew and nuzzled. He rested his hand on the horse’s white blaze and bowed his head. 

Sometimes, he thought, when it was all too much, he felt like saddling up Barakhir and just the two of them riding off somewhere, amongst lawless Men, who did not ask questions and who did not need elaborate lies and excuses…Except he had tried that once. …There had been a time, one winter when he had fallen into such company….It had not been Barakhir then, but Ferendir, he remembered fondly. His faithful horse had finally rebelled against his headlong ride into self-destruction, and brought him home. 

He bowed his head and clenched his fist. No. He did not want that again. But he could not bear this…

Seeking peace in routine, he went into the feed store and mixed up a second feed for their horses, for it had been a long journey and he did not overfeed them when they arrived. Once he had settled Barakhir and Baraghur and could hear the soothing munching, he filled their hayracks with dry, sweet hay and settled himself brushing Baraghur, Elladan’s horse, for he knew better than to groom Barakhir when he was feeding. As he brushed, he let his mind settle with the repetition and soothing sound of horses, the gentle snuffling. Even when he had finished, he simply leaned on the stall door and listened, breathed with them and found it restful.

‘I think the first time I saw you was like this. Leaning over a stable door,’ a voice came. He froze. ‘You were so young…so tender.’ He remembered that time too; he had been young. Too young for what Haldir had wanted, had seen in him.

‘What do you want, Haldir?’ he said as coldly as he could. 

Haldir stepped into the light. His long blond hair gleamed and a cool smile played about his lips. But Elrohir knew it was feigned and beneath the veneer was someone far from cold.

‘You know what I want,’ Haldir said in a low voice. He came closer this time, let his hand drift around Elrohir’s arm and trail along his sleeve. 

Elrohir steeled himself for his body remembered and treacherously responded to the huskiness, the whisper, remembering a different time and a different place. ‘Leave me be. He shrugged away Haldir’s hand. ‘You would shame me in my grandmother’s own city?’

‘Shame you?’ Haldir stared at him and lifted his hand to Elrohir’s face. ‘That is not what you thought before. No. I freed you, gave you permission to do things you wanted, I wanted.’

‘That time has long gone,’ he said harshly, pulling his arm away. ‘I was different then.’

‘You are older now, true. And harder. A warrior. You are not the boy I first loved…But your desires are not changed whatever you might say.’ Haldir leaned against the stable door, close enough for Elrohir to feel the heat of him against his arm. He pulled away angrily.

‘I barely knew I wanted anything much less what it was I wanted.’

‘That is not true, Elrohir,’ said Haldir with that impertinent arrogance that made Elrohir’s hands itch. ‘You wanted. Every line of you was shaking with lust.’ Haldir followed him, too close. Elrohir swung round to stare at him, fists clenched. ‘Earlier when you arrived, though you scorned me, I could smell your desire.’ Haldir leaned in, let his long pale hair slide down his shoulder, and looked at Elrohir obliquely. For some insane reason that Elrohir could not fathom, he was reminded of Legolas Thranduillion. Almost, he seized Haldir. Almost he crushed him into an aggressive, harsh kiss…but he did not. He battled himself and the throbbing desire in his balls. But Haldir knew him too well; he stroked a finger down his arm, circled the back of his hand with his own finger, let his eyes lower in submission. Elrohir felt his eyes close and his lips parted in a breath of desire.

‘Do not pretend to yourself that you were an innocent.’ Haldir’s voice was low, breathless. ‘You have never been innocent. You have never been a victim…’ He lifted his gaze to Elrohir now, eyes heavy with lust. ‘You have always taken what you wanted…’ 

Elrohir breathed. The air was suddenly close. He thought he might swoon with the scent of musk, of desire. His cock was stiff and aching. 

‘Oh come, Elrohir!’ Haldir’s laugh was mocking, sensual. ‘You were hardly unwilling…and even now, I see the passion ignite in you…Do you not wish me to pleasure you?’ He leaned in close and his breath was warm against Elrohir’s ear. ‘Is this a game? Do you wish me to kneel before you and beg?’ 

Elrohir gasped. He could not speak. 

‘I know what you want.’ Haldir pressed up against him, shoved his hard cock against Elrohir’s thigh, and murmured, even closer now. ‘You should punish me for my disregard of the Laws.’ He laughed softly, and the sound of it inflamed Elrohir further. He sank to his knees, clasping Elrohir’s thigh. ‘Here. Is this what you want?’ His hot breath was on Elrohir’s thigh, mouthing kisses, nipping at him.

‘Stop!’ Elrohir shoved Haldir away from himself, wanting. ‘Do not…I never wanted that…perversion.’ He stared at Haldir, seeing the full lips curl, the arrogance on the eyes kindle and bridle at his accusations. It made him so hard, he thought he might burst if he did not take this Elf down and thrust him against the wall, hurt him so he begged…

A bruised, tear-stained face peered up at him unseeing, a lip cut and bleeding moved in soundless pleading. Blue eyes that had only ever looked upon him with love, cornsilk hair matted and knotted, dirty as soiled straw…begged him not to hurt her…

‘No!’ It was almost a sob. He no longer saw Haldir, he only saw the bruised face, heard the pleading. ‘Get off me, Haldir!’ He shoved Haldir hard, pushing him away. That smell made him gag suddenly. It was the same smell on his poor mother’s thighs and he felt his stomach churn and bile burned his throat. 

‘No!’ he said again, denying more than Haldir. ‘Get out of my sight while you still can. You perverted me, corrupted me! I was too young to know any different. You should have protected me not seduced me, not corrupted me! You have destroyed me!’ He flung himself from the wall, pushed Haldir from him when he followed and then turned, eyes flashing, crimson rage building to a storm. ‘Do not touch me! Ever! Do not speak to me! Ever. I will kill you if you touch me again.’ He ignored Barakhir’s anxious whinny and strode from the stable into the cold moonlight.

He did not know where to go now. Everywhere he felt he was watched, spies or the Mirror intruding, pursuing him. He wanted to get out of Lorien as fast as he could. 

He stopped, breathing hard and leaned against a great mallorn tree. The tree did nothing. It was a tree, he told himself. The silvans were fools if they imagined the trees gave a damn about them. Singing their songs and gazing at the stars when the world crumbled around them and Sauron beat them as he would iron, beat them down and down, hammering until they were flattened by war. 

He was bursting with need, with lust. He wished he had indeed taken Haldir now and rammed him against the wall of the stable until he wept, until he begged, until he bled. It was Haldir’s fault he was corrupt.

He found his teeth clenched like his fists so hard he might break them and stopped. He rubbed his hands over his face and walked towards the river. He would plunge himself into its cold depths and cleanse himself of these impure, perverted thoughts. He hated Haldir. He hated himself more.

0o0o

Moonlight pooled on the silver wood floor, caught on the edges of the thin muslin veils that fluttered in a light wind. Elladan listened to his brother step quietly on to the ladder that curled round the tree, and the step creaked once and then there was no more sound until he heard the soft creak of leather as Elrohir dropped his leather jerkin on the floor and pulled off his boots. 

Elladan listened but did not speak. He thought perhaps that Elrohir had gone to meet with Haldir although his initial greeting was the coldest he had ever seen from Elrohir. There was clearly more to know about their relationship that Elladan knew of for Elladan had only had brief and cursory encounters with Haldir. 

He frowned, wondering what had happened. On their first visit to Lorien, they had met the Marchwarden and he had shown interest in the young sons of Celebrián. Indeed, Elladan had wondered if his brother was infatuated. It happened. Had he not felt the same about Erestor once? Elladan had been a gangly adolescent admiring a sophisticated, urbane man, all charisma and presence and notoriety. At that age it had been glamorous, exciting; everything he had wanted for himself. But Erestor had been kindness itself, careful with Elladan’s feelings to the point of frustration. And there had been nothing in their later visits to suggest the adolescent infatuation had been anything more, or lasted beyond those few months. Now Elladan wondered if those solitary hunting trips where Elrohir had disappeared for months on end in the Wilds and returned either strangely elated or plunged into misery, had been with Haldir. He wondered even more about the one time in deep winter when he had returned in deep despair and with those strange wounds that only Elladan knew about.

Elrohir’s emotions always ran so deep, tempestuous. It was bound to end unhappily, Elladan thought sadly. He wished he could help his brother find happiness.

A boot scraped against the floor and he heard Elrohir still, obviously hoping not to wake Elladan himself. 

Elladan sighed and said, ‘I am already awake. You do not need to creep around like a bad tempered and rather clumsy old mouse.’ He opened his eyes, smiling to see that Elrohir had his back to him and his head was bowed. He was half- naked and stood only in his black leather breeches with his long black hair falling over his shoulders, hiding his face. 

He reached out with his own blessing of calm and blue peace, to find the ragged edge of Elrohir’s fury dulled and blunted. He could feel Elrohir was exhausted and misery drenched him through. Elladan felt his own heart clench at his own powerlessness to change anything.

‘Elrohir?’ he said, throwing his own blankets back and reached out to his brother. ‘Tell me what ails you. Tell me what I may do to ease your heart.’ 

Elrohir sank onto the edge of Elladan’s bed and put his head in his hands. 

‘I am beyond all help, Elladan. Do not waste your time on me.’

Elladan drew his arm around Elrohir’s shoulder and cradled him against his shoulder. Elrohir resisted at first and then gave in, leaned against Elladan and hid his face against his chest. 

Elladan sank his own Power deep into his skin, to soak Elrohir’s desolate loathing in calm and peace. ‘I know you hate this place,’ he said softly, leaning his cheek on the top of Elrohir’s head. ‘Everything is more complicated here.’

His brother’s muffled voice reached him then. ‘I do not want to be who I am,’ he said. ‘I wish it would end.’

Elladan felt his chest squeeze in love and sorrow for his poor, tormented brother.

‘Hush, do not say such things. I love you for who you are, what you are. I could not bear to be without you.’ He pressed his cheek against the top of Elrohir’s head. ‘Let us return to Imladris, find Erestor, warn him of the danger we have sensed. We will give father our tidings and word from Galadriel. Then we will leave. Perhaps go with Aragorn.’

‘Do you mean to Gondor?’

‘Yes. Perhaps join the fight. We are both better away from here. And we cannot stay in Imladris.’ Though in his heart Elladan wished he could indeed find rest and linger in Imladris. ‘Or we could ride with Halbarad and draw the Eye away from Aragorn perhaps.’ He stroked Elrohir’s head like he was a child. ‘We will leave as soon as day breaks.’

0o0o0


	27. Friendship

**Apologies for how very long I** **’** **ve made you wait for this. Just RL.**

**Thanks as always to Anarithilien, whose generosity is boundless.**

** Summary **

Legolas has returned to Imladris and made friends with the Hobbits. Elladan and Elrohir are in Lothlorien, taking messages to Galadriel. Haldir approached Elrohir only to be rebuffed. Erestor and Glorfindel are on their way to Phellanthir.

** Chapter 26: Friendship **

A thin line of yellow cracked the night sky above the horizon. Dawn. At last, thought Elladan, for the anxiety he had felt before as they came over the Mountains had only increased since he looked into the Mirror. He would have left straight away had the horses not needed rest.

Elladan turned his head to look down at his brother. Elrohir looked so different when he slept, the creases and tension of his face eased out and he looked peaceful. Elladan had smoothed his dreams, stayed awake to watch over him and if he turned or frowned, stroked calm over his thoughts until the swirling crimson that was his brother was suffused with Elladan’s own peace. His poor brother’s despair and self-loathing tugged at him and he feared that it might drive him to take the Path of Men for their Choice had not yet been made. He had seen enough of Elrohir’s despair to make him fear more, that he might actively seek death and the peace he thought came with the fate of Men. It was one of the reasons he went when Galadriel had sent her gentle summoning.

But he had not seen Elrohir’s fate. He had seen enough to make him fear; he had seen them both before the Black Gate and knew they were doomed to take that last stand. The Nazgûl pursued them, but that was not new- ever had the Nine pursued and been pursued by the Sons of Thunder. But a confusion of images, too swift and too confused to make sense, had flipped before him. It was why he did not like to look into the Mirror; it was full of maybes and what ifs.

One image though, had been sharp in its clarity and sense of deep foreboding; he had seen a dark tower like a cracked tooth, broken apart by lightning and hiding great evil. In the Mirror he had seen two horses, white and black cantering easily towards it and he knew this was Erestor and Glorfindel though how this came to be, he did not know. When last he had seen Glorfindel, he had been returning to Imladris with Aragorn, bringing Rhawion’s body home and Erestor was in the High Pass leading the attack on the mustering Orc and Goblin army.

Elladan could wait no longer. As soon as he saw the pale crack of dawn he roused Elrohir quietly. ‘It is dawn, brother. Are you ready to leave?’

‘Aye. Never more ready. Let us leave this stagnant place.’ He looked at Elladan and held his gaze, gradually seeing the anxiety and impulse in Elladan. ‘You are worried.’

‘Grandmother bid me look in her Mirror,’ Elladan told him.

’I should be less surprised.’ Elrohir threw the blankets from him and was already on his feet. He stretched his strong body and rubbed his face. ‘She will not stop until she has what she wants. And I mistrust what she wants from us. What did you see?’ he asked as he stood but Elladan thought he was troubled, anxious almost.

Elladan sighed and frowned. ‘You know I do not like to look into the Mirror- it is full of shadows and maybes…I saw two clear images. I saw Erestor and Glorfindel riding towards danger, and I saw us before the Black Gate.’ He glanced up at Elrohir’s shocked face and looked away again quickly.

 

‘I saw that too…Did you see anything else? Did you see who else was there or was it only us you saw?’ Elrohir’s face was almost ashen and Elladan wondered what Elrohir had seen that bothered him so greatly that the danger to Erestor and Glorfindel seemed momentarily forgotten.

 

‘I saw an army of Men,’ Elladan said, remembering the sudden sunlight shining through the cloud of red dust, glinting on thousands of spears and swords. He did not say how few it seemed to him to be standing before the Gates of Mordor itself. And he said nothing of the confusion of images that had flipped through the Mirror and made no sense to him. ‘Perhaps we will ride with Aragorn and the Ringbearer,’ he said. ‘How else can that come to be?’ He paused and said carefully, ‘Although Father has foreseen others on that quest. Not us.’

 

Elrohir avoided his gaze, glanced quickly at him and away. ‘Perhaps Elrond does not see clearly,’ he replied sharply. He walked over to the washstand where a jug and bowl had been placed. He poured water over his hands and into the bowl, cupping his hands and splashing water over his face and then his body. He blinked and shook himself. ‘Perhaps he has only seen what he wishes to see. Of course we are going with Aragorn. We have always ridden with him and this is the dream we have guarded all our lives…Or do you think he wishes Aragorn to fail? So that Arwen is safe?’

 

‘You know that is not true!’ Elladan said, shocked.

 

Elrohir looked away contemptuously. He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. ’It _is_ true. In part at least. We both know it. Elrond will keep us all safe if he can. And Arwen most of all. If Aragorn is slain, Illuvatar forbid, Elrond will grieve, of course, but it will preserve Arwen.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, pulling on his long leather boots and stamping down hard to drive his feet into them. ‘He will take her away to the Havens then, abandoning Middle Earth and fleeing before Sauron brings all his might down upon Imladris.’

 

Elladan stared at him now, shocked. He could see the truth in that; if Sauron killed Aragorn, then all the hopes of Men would be lost and the Winged Crown of Gondor be forever unclaimed. Sauron would not pause long before the Gates of Minas Tirith. Orcs would make swift work of the city and leave nothing of it; it would be razed to the ground as had been done in Ost-in-Edhel. And then his attention would turn to vengeance; Lothlorien. Imladris.  

 

But the Sons of Thunder would not flee, he knew. They would stand with Aragorn and though all burned around them, still they would stand. Blurred images coalesced then into one; an iron ring upon his brother’s hand, an iron crown upon his head and he gasped. Sauron too wanted them, for he would seek Aragorn’s defeat and then to use them to force an ignominious surrender upon the Elves, upon Galadriel and Elrond – to take the Rings for he had yearned for them since he felt their existence.

 

‘It will not come to that!’ The words burst from him. His breath was fast. ‘Even though we walk in peril of our souls, we will stand with Aragorn. He will not fall!’ Elladan turned his shocked gaze upon his brother.

 

Then Elrohir reached out to him then and pressed his hand on Elladan’s shoulder so that Elladan felt his brother’s resolve, his certainty in the rightness of what they did. The comfort of being the other half of his soul. ‘No. Aragorn will not fall. We will stand with him and we will not give in. Though we stand before the Gates of Mordor, we will not be parted from him. And we will _never_ succumb to the Dark.’ He pulled Elladan into his embrace and Elladan felt his courage rise and his fists clench; Sauron would not prevail. Aragorn would not fall because the Sons of Thunder were with him.

 

Elrohir pulled back slightly to look at Elladan and smiled softly. ‘I felt you in my dreams. Were you with me all night?’

Elladan still dazed with realization, simply said, ‘Once you returned. Yes.’ He did not ask where Elrohir had been.

Elrohir pulled on his black leather tunic and was cinching his wide belt tight around his lean hips. He cast a quick smile like sudden sunlight towards Elladan. ‘I slept peacefully knowing you were there.’ He pulled his sable cloak towards him and swirled it about his shoulders. Then he met Elladan’s anxious gaze with courage, certainty, and said, ‘Now. Let us ride and warn Erestor of your unease, and bid him not leave Imladris until this great danger passes.’ He loosened dark Aícanaro in its sheath and as always, Elladan had the uncanny sense that the sword awoke and uncoiled.

Elladan followed his brother, now capable and strong. He stuffed the letters and messages that Celeborn had given him, into his tunic pocket. There were messages too for Gandalf from Galadriel. ‘In the Mirror I saw Erestor with Glorfindel,’ he told Elrohir. But now that they were moving, Elladan felt his unease shift and pull at him.

 

‘What did you see?’ asked Elrohir. He shoved his thick sable cloak to one side ready to descend the talan and shifted his sword belt. He started down the ladder of the talan with Elladan following close behind.

 

‘They ride towards a dark tower…’ Elladan said, recalling the image of the dark tower like a cracked tooth, broken apart by lightning and hiding great evil. In the Mirror he had seen two horses, white and black cantering easily towards it ‘I did not know where that might be for I did not recognise it. A blasted tower as if it had been struck by lightning and a great storm has pulled it almost down. A ruin. It gave credence to my unease as we came down from the Hithaeglir.’

 

Elrohir stopped so suddenly that Elladan crashed into him, stared at Elrohir in alarm. ‘They have gone to Phellanthir!’ he said in a low, anxious voice.

 

‘Phellanthir! Then the danger is more imminent that I thought!’ cried Elladan. ‘I thought they would be safe at Imladris and we could warn them of some future danger. But they could already be on their way to Phellanthir. Suppose they have taken seriously Legolas’ claims that Rhawion is trapped in there? Suppose they have gone back?’ Elladan cried. ‘There is some great evil awaits them there, Elrohir!’ 

‘Come then. The sooner we leave this place, the better.’

0o0o

With quiet haste they led their horses out of the stables and Elladan swung astride. Baraghur was eager to be off in spite of the long journey. The rest had done him good, thought Elladan and stroked the long, glossy neck affectionately. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You deserve a longer rest.’ Barahgur shook his head as if in denial and pranced a little.

He heard voices behind him and turned his head to see that Haldir stood in front of Elrohir, not yet mounted. Their voices were too low so that he could not hear what they said, but he could see Elrohir’s face, his eyes downcast and Haldir’s voice, urgent, then lower. He put his hand on Elrohir’s arm and though Elrohir looked at it like he would cast it off, he did not and when Haldir said something else, Elrohir suddenly looked up at the Marchwarden.

‘You would not!’ Elladan heard his brother say but Elladan recognized the slight edge of fear in his brother’s voice.

Elladan turned Baraghur’s head and quickly rode back. ’Come Elrohir! We must be gone!’ he said. ‘What is it, Haldir, that you delay us?’

Elrohir’s face, when he turned, was distraught, thought Elladan with a start. Almost in despair.

‘My lord, I speak with your brother,’ Haldir said, his face in contrast was frozen into his customary haughty aloofness. He turned back to Elrohir as if dismissing Elladan and Elladan, remembering the curt dismissal Elrohir had given Haldir when they arrived, was suddenly alarmed at what might have led to this change and he wondered where Elrohir had been that night.

‘But clearly he has no wish to speak with you!’ he said sternly and rode Baraghur between Haldir and Elrohir.

‘You know nothing of what is between he and I!’ Haldir exclaimed. ‘He has no wish to speak with me now but he used to do so much more with his mouth than speak.’ The Marchwarden slid a sideways look at Elrohir, triumphant. Elladan was shocked beyond speech for a moment. Haldir’s voice curled around him insidiously. ‘On his knees before me, begging for chastisement for his sinful thoughts.’

He heard an inarticulate cry from Elrohir but ignored it, staring down at Haldir in shocked astonishment. Suddenly Elladan thought again of the deep Winter when Elrohir had returned alone and with those strange wounds that were made by no Orc, precise strokes rather than slashes. Elrohir had been almost beyond reach when he rode in that quiet, Winter night.

There was a look of triumph in Haldir’s eyes that made Elladan pause, a look of desire. ‘You lie!’ he said vehemently. ‘Have a care, Marchwarden, the Lady would take a dim view of you accusing her grandson of sharing any perversion that might be in your heart!’

Haldir’s eyes were cool but his voice was hot, angry. ‘You fool yourself if you think he was a victim. It is in his nature. The need for _baur-ur_ is in his blood. **_Your_** blood.’ He turned on his heel then and stalked away and into the trees, where he seemed to melt like he was never really there.

Elladan turned to Elrohir, who would not look at him. His shame was palpable, like a cloak he drew about himself and though Elrohir was never one to hang his head, he would not meet Elladan’s gaze.

‘I do not need to know what he has done, or what he thinks _you_ have done, my heart. It is enough that you ride with me to Erestor’s aid,’ Elladan said and he tried to reach out to the crimson soul of his brother but found it dull and lusterless, faded like an old curtain. He did not ask what the _baur-ur_ was, he did not want to know what hidden rites had existed long before Galadriel came here, and which still flourished in secret in the old Silvan realms.

0o0o

Elladan urged Baraghur on, wishing suddenly to escape the cloying breathlessness of Lothlorien, to be in the Mountains where the air was pure and untainted. He wanted to be away from others and their demands, expectations. Just he and Elrohir so he could wrap his brother in gentleness and calm, pour his healing into him so he could find his own peace. The turmoil Elrohir carried with him made him too vulnerable, too easily led into violence that was already in his blood and bones. That must be at the heart of what Haldir had said. He must have tried to seduce Elrohir and having failed, was blackmailing him to succumb, Elladan told himself as they rode.

He did not escape those thoughts all the ride from Lothlorien across the plains, into the foothills of the Hithaeglir. They spoke little for Elrohir could not meet his gaze and shut him out.

‘Forgive me,’ was all Elrohir would say and he was so miserable that Elladan could only reach and clasp his hand.

‘I wish I could take away all your unhappiness,’ he said. ‘Our mother’s torment devours you.’ He did not say there was no more that either of them could have done because he did not believe that himself either; he shared his brother’s belief that Galadriel should have foreseen it, that Haldir should have led warriors to her relief, that Elrond should have been able to heal her, that he himself should have found her sooner…all the guilt and blame was his as much as Elrohir’s. But Elrohir had been the beloved son. And he felt it so much more.

‘No matter,’ Elrohir said roughly and he turned his face away in shame. ‘It is the least I deserve.’

Elladan sighed and felt Elrohir hardening and shutting him out once more. As if Elladan had seen too much and in truth, he had.

0o0o

The Wild seemed clear and peaceful after the turmoil of Lothlorien. Above them, the mountains were gleaming with snow in the cold winter sun, pristine, pure. An eagle circled above them and Elrohir rode in morose silence, knowing he was distressing his brother, wanting to tell him all but his tongue was thick in his mouth and dry as ash. How could he tell Elladan of the depravity, the depths to which he had sunk?

He saw Elladan lost and gazing ahead, westwards. ‘What is it?’ he asked, recognising that his brother was lost in foresight.

‘Erestor. He is in great danger.’

Elrohir turned to his brother, lips parted and eyes wide with concern, all thought for himself gone. ‘Then let us ride hard.’

They left the Redhorn Gate swiftly as they dared and Eregion spread before them.

0o0o

Legolas had moved back into the room he had left when he had accompanied Glorfindel in his hunt for the Nazgûl. Immediately he had thrown the windows wide open so the breeze came in and cool air from the Mountains filled the room, floating the gauzy veils that hung from the windows. It had begun to feel too close in the Healing rooms and he had grown tired of being watched, even if it were only Pippin or Gimli who kept him company but watched him closely nonetheless.

He cast his gaze about the elegant room, feeling as dissatisfied as he had within the Healing rooms and he wondered why. That tinny ringing was back in his ears again and he wondered if he had been struck so hard in the head by one of the Orcs that it had affected him. Although it was just as likely to be the after-effect of the _cryst_ _ô_ _l,_ he thought, for his limbs still did not quite feel they were his own and he knew he was still weak from the poison. And the cure too for that matter.

He pulled out the one drawer where all his belongings were kept -- so meagre were they -- and fished out his spare clean linen shirt. He had mended the tear in it with tiny, neat stitches for this was the shirt he had worn in the wilds, and now it had been carefully cleaned and laundered. He was half glad the house staff had not simply replaced it and half embarrassed that he would attend Gandalf’s table in a mended shirt, for the Wizard had asked him to join him that evening for supper with the Hobbits. ‘And a few others,’ the Wizard had added cryptically.

He struggled into the clean linen shirt, pleased to be spending time with Pippin and his friends but his stomach clenched that he might be scrutinised further over Sméagol’s escape. Aragorn’s words still rankled and prickled more now that he was back here in Imladris; he had been happy out in the Wild, even though there were Orcs and goblins and Nazgûl, for he knew what he was about and that was where his skill was. But here, in the rarified and elegant atmosphere of Imladris, where Elves glided it seemed rather than walked, and their long gowns and robes floated, he felt too solid, too practical, a little grubby and less well dressed. Less polished. He never felt that in the Wood where he felt it didn't matter much what you wore because everyone had the same simple homespun linen or tough village-cured leather. Even the King dressed thus on normal days when he was not receiving visitors to the Realm or had need to impress upon them the strength of the realm. Here the leather was butter soft and the engravings and etchings as elegant as anything he had ever seen; it was silk not homespun, and even the stables were elegant and luxurious.

The tinny ringing in his ears seemed to grown stronger. It depressed him; he realised, and resolved to mention it to the Healers when he saw them the next day.

He sighed and looked down at his hands. His nails were very short, practical, but there were callouses on his hands and fingers from the bow, and his boots were more than a little worn, collapsed in folds of brown leather where he had thrown them, like they were exhausted. But they had been polished to within an inch of their life, he thought, you could see your face reflected in them so shiny were they. 

Well, he thought, dragging a wooden comb through his hair and smoothing it, his boots were polished but he was not… Not as good. More dangerous. Less wise. If he was a little less polished and a little more worn, it was not because he was any less than they, he tried to tell himself, but that tinny ringing had become a thin whine that strung his nerves on edge and dampened his confidence still more.

He smoothed a hand anxiously over his belt, and slid the roulette that Gimli had given him into the secret pocket of the belt alongside the thin white knife and checked the other knife in his boot. He looked at himself in the polished glass mirror and thought that he did not look grand enough for Imladris, or anything like their view of what the son of a king should look like. On the walls behind him were long tapestries of Gil-Galad and the Last Alliance, with its princes and lords. Neither Oropher nor his father were anywhere in the tapestry, he noted, though many Men and elven lords were clearly depicted, some faces he recognised from just walking around Imladris. He glanced at himself again and squared his shoulders; he did look like a Woodelf and he told himself that was good enough.He tried to shove away the nagging doubts and criticism.

The thin whine pitched even higher and he winced. And then abruptly, it stopped.

Slowly, his felt his shoulders drop and realised only then how he had been hunched against the whine. His face smoothed and he breathed...

_They do not care for the sacrifice of the Wood_ _…_

No. That was clear in everything that had been said, in every reference to battle or the Shadow. It was all about the Last Alliance and Gil-Galad’s death, about the fall of Isildur, about Gondor’s kings…

_The Wood is on its own in its fight against Shadow_ _…_ _there is no aid here._

He paused a moment and frowned at himself in the mirror. That was not why he came; he came to tell Gandalf that Smeagol had escaped _._

_And they care nothing for that sacrifice._

That is true, he thought. The upset and concern had all been for Smeagol’s escape and not one word had been spent on the sacrifice of his friends.

 _The Wood_ _’_ _s sacrifice again, overlooked_ ….

He felt an unaccustomed resentment building up in his chest. Yes. The Wood was yet again overlooked. Amongst all those faces that looked out from those many tapestries, there was not one Elf of the Wood in spite of the huge numbers killed…He chewed his lip and found his fingers worrying at the cuff of his tunic. His face looked back at him from the mirror, he looked so pale and anxious, he thought. Like he should still be in the Healing ward…

I am not going back there, he resolved. Perhaps not fully recovered, but he had spent time turned inwards to heal himself, ran his awareness along the nerves and sinews of his body, knitting them back, listening to his own Song and healing the discord. And these unkind thoughts are merely discord, he told himself. The residue of poison unbalancing him slightly and after all, he decided, in all fairness, Gil-Galad hardly featured in the Wood’s tale of Dagorlad. He shook himself and met his own gaze firmly in the mirror and squared his shoulders. He was Legolas Thranduillion, an archer of the Wood and _Danwedh-amlung_ to boot. Dragon-ransom. He shook himself free of the spiteful thoughts that were not worthy of him opened the door.

Almost immediately two Hobbits fell in.

‘Pippin!’

“We were just coming to fetch you,’Pippin rubbed his arm where he had fallen against a chair and glared at Merry.

‘Don’t look at me Pip. It was you had your nose pressed against the door when Legolas opened it. No wonder you fell in.

‘I was not! I was checking he was in here.’

Legolas looked from one to the other. ‘Well I am here,’ he said a little bemused.

‘We’ve come to get you, bring you to Gandalf’s supper,’Pippin said brightly. ‘Gimli wanted to come but Gandalf said _we_ should.’

‘What he said was that _YOU_ should, Pip, because it will keep you out of mischief.’

‘Yes, I didn't know what he meant by that.’ Pippin appealed to Legolas, who also wondered why Gandalf should have felt he had to keep Pippin out of mischief. ‘I haven't done anything!’ Pippin added in a hurt voice.

Merry gave a loud snort then and Pippin turned to him in wide-eyed innocence. ‘What? What am I being blamed for now?’

‘Nothing Pip…Just you probably should not go into the kitchens for a little while.’

Pippin blushed then. ‘Ah. Yes. Good point…But you were with me, Merry. Why don't you get blamed?’

Merry stood looking round Legolas’ rather sparse room with interest. He turned to face them, hands stuck in his pockets.‘Well now, Pip. Let me think. Perhaps I am not being blamed because it was not I who stacked one chair on top of another to reach a plate of pastries that had been made especially for the Lady Arwen? Or it even maybe the fact that you fell off the chairs and into the cake mixture for Bilbo’s tea party.

Legolas looked at Pippin with awe. ‘Did you?’

Pippin casually picked out some pink icing from his hair. He shrugged. ‘Well I think it sounds a lot worse than it was.’

Merry laughed again. ‘Come on you two. We will be late and Sam will have eaten all the cakes.’ He led them out of Legolas’ room and into the corridor beyond, shutting the door behind them.

Pippin trotted alongside Legolas and cast the Elf a long look that would have been calculating on anyone else but Pippin. ‘It is very hard to be in a house where everyone else is so very tall.’His look turned speculative. ‘But if I had someone with me who was tall, they could reach the nice little snacks and things I can’t reach.’ His tone turned plaintive. ‘It is very hard to be hungry all the time and I don’t like to keep bothering people. You know what I mean, Legolas?’

Legolas found himself nodding in agreement. ‘Perhaps I can help, Pippin.’ He fell in step beside him and so missed Merry’s grin, or Pippin’s answering wink.

‘Well, that is good. Bilbo’s tea party is not until tomorrow and that cake mixture was really very nice. ‘

‘And I think he would want us to try the cakes and just make sure they are what he wants.’

‘We wouldn't want the old Hobbit to be embarrassed, would we?’

Legolas found he had a Hobbit on each side of him now and had to look from one to the other for they spoke rapidly, as if finishing each other’s thoughts. He had a fleeting thought of Anglach, for he and Anglach had been as good friends as Merry and Pippin.

‘And Legolas, I think he intends to invite you.’ Merry was looking up at him and trotting at Legolas’ side. He realised he had been walking a little fast and slowed his steps.

‘Oh yes. He is very fond of your father you know,’ Pippin panted a little and Legolas slowed still more.

‘Yes. He talks about his friend, the Elvenking quite a lot!’ Merry was walking now at a comfortable pace and Legolas noted that this very slow pace was a good pace for Hobbits. But he wondered if they would ever get to their destination it was so slow, for the Hobbits seemed quite content to amble.

‘My father speaks of Bilbo Baggins a great deal too,’ replied Legolas, looking down at first Merry and then Pippin. ‘I know he would wish for me to pass on his very warmest wishes.’

Pippin looked impressed and said, ‘Well we will collect you for Bilbo’s tea party then! And perhaps we can spend the afternoon together.’

Slowly Legolas followed them down the sweep of elegant stone steps and out into the garden. And though he nodded and walked with them, he leaned in and stilled himself within, listened to the sounds that were deep below the surface of the world, deeper than their voices, let the words flow over and around him like bubbles in a stream; that was Pippin he realised and smiled. Yes. The stream gurgled and bubbled and laughed as it poured obliviously on over the smooth stones and babbled along deep lanes and roads, through fields and valleys.

He smiled and looked down at Pippin who had stopped quite suddenly and was looking up at Legolas with eyes wide and his mouth a round O.

‘What’s the matter, Pip?’Merry asked concerned. But Pippin just gaped and did not speak until Legolas tilted his head slightly to regard the Hobbit more closely. For a moment Pippin stared into Legolas’green eyes, and Legolas saw his pupils widen further and he caught an edge of the Song soaring upwards - this was right. Whatever his doubts, he was supposed to be here, right here, right now, with Pippin. And Pippin knew it too.

‘Ooh,’the Hobbit said breathlessly. ‘I’ve just realised, Legolas! We are going to be such good friends.’

Legolas felt a bubble of laughter force its way out of his chest and it felt so good, he let it go. ‘We most certainly are!’he exclaimed with merriment and a sudden urge for mischief.

Merry watched them astonished and delighted, as Legolas and Pippin almost danced across the frost- dusted lawns and between the fading roses. Then he grinned widely and gleefully, shook his head and dashed after them.

It was cold and they could see a light dusting of snow over the grass and silvering the twigs and branches of trees, the leaves. In the fading light, it glittered.

Merry and Pippin led Legolas to a part of the House he had not been before. It was as elegant as the rest but faced West so the setting sun streamed in through the long windows. It reminded him for a moment of the first time he had seen Elrohir Elrondion… but he firmly put that thought out of his mind. He would never see that Elf again he was sure, and the slight ache in his chest he put down to disappointment that one of the legends of his youth was so ignoble and unworthy of his regard. But perhaps too, Legolas thought, he had not impressed Elrohir either; he remembered how Elrohir had discovered he and Berensul in the garden outside the Hall of Fire, pressed close together in a flagrant disregard for the customs of Elrond’s House, and too careless perhaps, of Legolas’ own honour. A flood of shame heated Legolas’ cheeks and he felt hot between his shoulder blades and neck. But the Hobbits seemed not to notice, nudging and shoving each other playfully as they made their way up a smooth spiral of wide stone steps

They climbed a smooth spiral of wide stone steps beside a waterfall and that led to a wide terrace. Roses climbed over a balcony, unbelievably one or two still bloomed and the scent lingered on the air. An elegant arched door of slivery wood stood half open and from within came the sound of voices and a lute played. A waft of pipeweed drifted from the door and merry laughter.

Merry stood aside and bowed. ‘After you, Pip.’

‘Oh no, after you, Merry,’Pippin bowed even lower.

“No. After you I insist.’Merry bowed again, sweeping his arm out to one side this time.

‘Very well.’They both chose to acquiesce at the same moment and squeezed through the door together and jammed.

‘Ooch. Merry get off!’said Pippin.

‘It’s you Pip, you’re getting too fat!’

‘Back to that! May I remind you that it was you who suggested we have the extra cake.’Pippin wriggled and suddenly unstuck. Legolas reached out his hand and caught the Hobbit just as he shot forwards. Pippin shook himself much as a dog that had been in the river and smiling brightly, he bowed to Legolas. ‘Much obliged, Legolas.’

‘An extra cake I said, not three.’Merry grumbled but there was no heat in it. They stepped within and a cry of welcome greeted them.

‘Well you had four!’Pippin’s voice drifted back and Legolas hesitated briefly.

Legolas blinked. Again for a moment he was back in the Wood with Anglach and Ceredir. Bickering merrily, stealing cakes, and if they unknowingly stole Galion’s handiwork, throwing them to break upon the cobblestones like chalk.

Suddenly a memory cracked open and he remembered a time when he and Anglach had returned from hunting spiders in the Wood to find Laersul returned unexpectedly…

_He and Anglach found Galion pressed against the door of Thranduil_ _’_ _s study. Not unusually and certainly. without any sense of embarrassment. He looked up when they approached without a trace of guilt and frowned at them, shushing them._ _‘_ _Laersul is in there and_ _…’_

_‘_ _Laersul!_ _’_ _shouted Legolas in delight for he loved his big brother. Anglach whooped wildly too for he was as much part of Legolas_ _’_ _family as he was his own. Anglach shoved past Galion as both he and Legolas barged into the study with Galion almost falling in after them. Legolas threw himself at his oldest brother, deliberately ruffling his braids so Laersul_ _’_ _s always immaculate appearance was as dishevelled as his, for he and Anglach, Legolas explained, had returned from their sortie empty-handed and empty hearted, in Anglach_ _’_ _s case at least._

_‘_ _She would not even look at me,_ _’_ _Anglach whined, his brown eyes mournful. Legolas laughed unsympathetically._ _‘_ _Silar_ _ô_ _s was already there._ _’_

_‘_ _Silar_ _ô_ _s has been courting her for months now,_ _’_ _Laersul said sympathetically. He looked tired, tense but his eyes were bright with something and Legolas, who knew his brother well, cocked his head to see him better. Something was happening. And his father had a look of studied calm that meant they had been discussing something exciting and secret. Laersul was still speaking he realised and tuned back into the conversation_ _…_ _Laersul was saying,_ _’_ _Your intelligence is very poor indeed if I knew that in the South and you did not know that in the North._ _’_

_Anglach threw a look at Legolas that was accusing for Legolas had been assuring him that the maid, whose name he could not remember now, was more than a little interested in Anglach. Legolas did not take his friend_ _’_ _s disappointment seriously- he was always falling in love._ _‘_ _I thought she was unspoken for_ _’_ _Legolas said carelessly._ _‘_ _She was very flirtatious with me,_ _’_ _he added a little smugly._ _‘_ _But you are an ugly son of an Orc, Anglach, and so why should she look at you?_ _’_

_Anglach turned his handsome face away and appealed to Thranduil, unafraid for he had been the closest friend of Legolas since they could walk._ _‘_ _Do you not think you should send Legolas on some very dangerous mission, a long way from here until I can get myself wed! With him around, no maiden wishes to walk with me._ _’_ _He cast a look then at Legolas._ _‘_ _And it is NOT because you are better looking. Indeed your father has cast a spell on your looking glass to fool you into thinking rather better of yourself than you should. It is because you crunch in on your Goblin feet and make them feel awkward by telling them I am hoping to wed them, that I am desperate and love-sick! And if you have not frightened them off already with your goblin-face, saying all that will!_ _’_

_‘_ _Never mind,_ _’_ _Laersul said to them both._ _‘_ _Galion has saved his rabbit pie for you both. I know you kindly left it for us,_ _’_ _he said quickly before Legolas could get anything else in first,_ _‘_ _but neither father nor I can eat anymore and we know it is indeed your favourite too._ _’_ _Legolas and Anglach exchanged a dismayed look for they thought they had been clever to extract themselves from Galion_ _’_ _s cooking and leave it for his father._

_Thranduil lifted his glass in triumphant salute to Laersul and dismay fled for Legolas_ _’_ _heart bounded with love to see them both excited and happy. He hoped, really hoped, it was something good. Too often he saw his brother and father poring over the maps of encroachments of spiders and orcs._

_‘_ _There is plenty for all!_ _’_ _Galion declared happily and brandished a serving spoon at them._ _‘_ _Now, who_ _’_ _s first. Anglach? Hardly a guest but you are the closest we_ _’_ _ve got. How much do you want?_ _’_

_‘_ _Anglach loves your pie,_ _’_ _Laersul said serenely. And then before anyone else could interrupt, he added,_ _‘_ _Almost as much as Legolas and I._ _’_ _*_

He felt choked and suddenly his eyes filled with tears and he saw Anglach’s fair face pale and bloodless, throat cot, slowly, his merry brown eyes gouged from their sockets and his ears cut. For the Orcs had had time to mutilate and torture them first. He could not bear it. He had not been there and if he had been, Anglach would still be alive. He put out a hand to steady himself, but found the wall sliding away. The Hobbits had disappeared inside oblivious and he stumbled.

Suddenly a steady, warm hand caught his arm and he heard the sound of deep voices chanting, the ring of hammer and the breath of the Mountain like a bellows…‘Steady on there, Legolas. Maybe you should not yet be out of bed.’

He looked down, blinking hard and saw the bright earth-brown eyes of the Dwarf looking kindly up at him. ‘Gimli,’he murmured. ‘I …I was overcome with memory.’

Gimli nodded kindly. ‘Yes. Of course. They have not yet returned of course but I am quite sure Glorfindel will find the truth and lay your mind at rest.’

For a moment he was confused and then he remembered; Erestor and Glorfindel had ridden on to Phellanthir, to discover if there were any truth about Legolas’ fevered belief that Rhawion’s fëa was somehow still trapped in that blasted Tower. He shuddered, remembering the foul dreams that had struck him, dragged him into the dreadful nightmares where the Nazgûl fed upon his own fëa sucked the light from him…A wave of guilt swept over him. Although he had not forgotten, it had faded from his mind as the poison and crystôl faded from his blood. He stopped and looked blankly at the floor. He had not even enquired after Glorfindel and Erestor

Just then Pippin’s voice came from within. ‘Are you two going to stay there letting all the cold air in or are you joining us?’

‘Just a moment, Pippin,’Gimli called, his bright eyes watching Legolas carefully. Then in a quieter voice he said, ‘Come Legolas. Let us join the Hobbits. It will cheer them up to sit with you. Pippin is very fond of you. And you have some small talent,’he said smiling.

Quite suddenly, Legolas felt overwhelmed by a tide of emotion, something deep. Like love. He clasped his hand over Gimli’s shoulder and though his eyes closed with the tumult of pain for Rhawion and Anglach, he felt he had found a jewel of great worth.

‘There will be a time when you are Elvellon.’He spoke words that seemed to come from somewhere else, some other time and place. Gimli was staring at him with a strange expression on his face.

Then Legolas blinked; it was as if a moment had been cut from time and now they were returned. Almost shyly, Gimli reached out and patted Legolas on the arm. ‘Shall we join the others now, my friend?’ he said but at that moment another figure appeared in the doorway.

‘Are you two playing nicely?’ Aragorn folded his arms and lounged against the doorframe, watching them with amusement. ‘If you have been making bets, then I do not want to be the subject of any of them,’he added.

‘There would be little point,’Gimli threw back quickly and Aragorn grinned and disappeared back into the room. ‘Are you ready?’Gimli asked Legolas and he nodded. ‘Come on then, I am starving. I hope Gandalf has more than fancy cakes and strawberry tarts that you can just fit into your hand and you need twenty to notice.’

‘You sound like Pippin,’Legolas said, putting the memory of Anglach carefully away like a treasure, and followed Gimli into a cheerful, homely room with a merry fire burning in the grate where Boromir knelt over it, precisely placing small logs to keep it burning. Frodo was sitting in a chair near the fire and Sam bustled about behind him.

On the chair opposite was Gandalf and when Legolas and Gimli entered, he took his pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Aragorn. ‘I told you,’he said knowingly and perhaps a little smugly, although Legolas did not know what it was that Gandalf had told Aragorn. ‘Come in, Gimli, my dear Dwarf, and Legolas. Now you are looking a lot better than when you arrived back here. What on earth were you thinking, tackling the Nazgûl in their lair and then letting Aragorn dose you up with that terrible stuff, crystôl. I am surprised to see you up and about so quickly.’

Aragorn started to protest but at the same time, Sam appeared before Legolas, his eyes round and serious. ‘Do have some toast or scones, Legolas. I think you need to eat something before you fall over. Mr Frodo might have some more if you do as well.’

Legolas glanced over to where Frodo sat with Pippin, who had cast himself onto the rug in front of the fire and was advising Boromir on a variety of concerns he thought the Man might have, mostly to do with travelling or food.

‘Of course. Thank you, Sam. Shall I hand those around?’Legolas asked gently for he always tried to be gentle around Sam. ‘It will give me something to do,’he added in a whisper for Sam’s ears only.

The reward was Sam’s smile.

Legolas thought it was the sweetest smile, full of naive delight, unquestioning, trusting, guileless. Sam’s song was instantly recognisable, not simple, but like Sam himself. Full of delight at growing things, the soft loam turned, roots digging deep, leaves unfurling and spreading under the sunshine, meadows, laughter and the sound of children playing….Legolas smiled in return and took the plate from Sam, piled another and another and another along his arm and then another, balanced a pot of jam and a dish of butter and a basket of scones on top and set off amongst the gathered Hobbits, the two Men and one Dwarf and Wizard. Bilbo was amongst them and chatting happily to Aragorn.

Legolas realised he was the only Elf present and wondered briefly why. But surely, he thought as he held out scones and butter and jam to Pippin for his third scone, no, fourth, not that Legolas was counting, there were lots of Elves with whom Gandalf was friendly. Lindir the minstrel, for example, was clearly a visitor for his lute leant against the wall in a corner and a fiddle was carefully placed  upon a carved chest nearby. Legolas wondered briefly who the fiddler could be.

He turned to Boromir and proffered a plate, who glanced up from his discussion with Pippin about how best to ford a river without losing your horse, a topic upon which clearly Pippin was an expert. Boromir was feigning studied interest. Legolas turned to Gandalf who looked up with his piercing blue eyes and caught Legolas’gaze for a moment. He gave him a long look and for a moment, Legolas heard the rushing sound of the wind, or perhaps it was the Sea for he had never heard the Sea. A sigh, long and then quiet, like a breath.

 

0o0o0

Gandalf had been watching his little gathering with interest. Merry and Pippin were the glue that brought this strange little band together, their merriment was infectious and drew even Boromir into the throng. Aragorn was standing with his elbow on the mantle and leaning against it, long pipe between his teeth and smiling. He looked younger when he smiled, thought Gandalf a little sadly, for he knew what the coming days would mean to the Heir of Isildur. All or nothing. Glory or misery. The winged crown or… Gandalf did not want to think on that for even Olórin did not know where the souls of Men went when they left the Circles of the World.

Boromir had been persuaded to sit between Merry and Pippin with Gimli and Legolas on the other side and there was some sort of game going on which Frodo watched with amusement and Sam watched Frodo anxiously, when he wans’t filling up cups and passing around plates.

But what interested Gandalf now was that every now and again, Legolas would rise to his feet and gently take the plate or jug from Sam and press him to sit, to join the group and quietly take over Sam’s role. And then Gimli would take over from Legolas as if the Elf and Dwarf had almost conspired to make Sam sit. It seemed that this moment it was Gimli’s turn to pass food and drink around. Gandalf glanced across to Frodo and saw that a smile just touched his lips as he watched Sam. The little gardener was sitting next to Legolas and laughing as the Elf performed some sleight of hand that had Pippin grabbing at his sleeve and turning his hand over to see how it was performed. Sam had none of his usual shyness or awkward curiosity with Legolas that he had around other Elves.

There was a lute leaning against the wall and a fiddle, left there by Lindir as Gandalf remembered fondly. After some hours, when the little gathering drew into a comfortable silence, Merry picked up the lute and strummed it speculatively. He played a little ditty that brought a wide smile to the faces of the Hobbits and Frodo shot Pippin a mischievous look that Gandalf had not seen on his face since he had been brought to Imladris.

Pippin scrambled to his feet and bowed to the company. ‘If you would like I can sing you a song,’he invited and Sam shook his head and mouthed _No_ but was ignored by the other Hobbits.

‘You need the fiddle really Pip,’said Merry a little disappointed,’but Fatty Bolger is not here and it was he used to play it for us.’

‘I wonder how Fatty is,’Frodo said softly. ‘I hope he is all right. We left him in Crickhollow when…’He shuddered and the other Hobbits immediately all started talking at once.

Legolas reached out and picked up the fiddle. He looked at it speculatively, then tucked it under his chin and lifted the bow. ‘I can try to play it if you wish,’he said, ‘but I am no minstrel.’

Gandalf leaned back and folded his hands. He tried not to glance triumphantly at Aragorn as he did but he knew the Man was as pleased as he.

And then to everyone’s astonishment, Gimli leaned over and pushed Legolas’hands and elbows into a different position and pull and pushed the fiddle up under the Elf’s chin. ‘Stroke the bow over the strings lightly,’said the Dwarf. ‘Stroke it like you would a cat.’

‘More likely to sound like a cat!’Boromir said cheerily and Legolas grinned at him.

‘Here, Gimli. You take it. You can obviously play and your tunes will sound better than my awful attempt.’He thrust the fiddle towards Gimli who paused for only a moment before taking it from him and tucked the fiddle under his chin. He worked his jaw for a moment and then quite suddenly zipped the bow over the strings. A light, bouncy jig broke over them and Pippin clapped and jumped up and down in glee.

Gandalf felt impossibly smug, he admitted to himself. He moved Narya slightly so the red jewel caught in the firelight and subtly brightened, flared. He let his awareness spread and sought the temperate air for Vilya. Not far away, Vilya was at peace. For a moment at least. The deep Power lambent, silver and blue. Sharpening his focus, he sought Vilya’s keeper and found him sleeping. Almost he turned away, and did not disturb him but Olórin was relentless; he knew what was at stake and stirred the sleeper gently, brushed Narya lightly across Vilya’s light, so the Power thrummed like a hand over a harp string and Elrond turned and threw his arm over his eyes but brought his awareness to Olórin.

 _See._  Olórin showed him the green-gold light that was Legolas, how it lit the shadows that clung to Boromir and how the earth-song of Gimli chimed with the lightness of the Woodelf. He felt Vilya pulse and turn to Narya, to him and respond.

_Very well, let it be. Nine have been chosen. Aragorn and Boromir for their way lies South. Frodo and Samwise for I see their road a long and hard one but in the end, friendship will prevail. Gimli for the Dwarves and Legolas will be for the Elves_ _…_ _And you, old friend. Your final task._

Touched with sadness was Elrond’s voice, and Vilya’s light dimmed slightly, stroked Narya like a farewell.

Olórin sank back into the comfortable old clothes of this physical flesh, looked down at the gnarled veins in his hands that were like tree roots and skin that became more and more like paper. For a moment, Olórin regretted the physical constraint of flesh and longed for his own lightness …but then, a drift of pipeweed touched these mortal senses and he smiled, feeling the skin stretch and then, he was Gandalf once more. He opened his eyes and colours and shapes coalesced, and there were the remaining two Hobbits sprawled before the fire and Aragorn standing nearby. The Man’s eyes were upon him knowingly, he watched as Olórin gathered himself back into Gandalf. But Aragorn said nothing

Music that was not the Great Song lifted his spirits and he tapped his foot along to the songs Pippin sang. The words at first, did not seemed right but as he became Gandalf once more and adjusted, he realised that these were not necessarily the right words of course, but some cheekier version of old traditional songs of the Shire.

All the Hobbits had danced a jig or two, even Sam. Gimli was an excellent musician and Legolas had taken over the lute from Merry and was far more skilled than he had said. Both Men and the Dwarf sung songs too from their native lands, and Legolas had told the Hobbits in particular many stories of Spiders and Dragons.

Gandalf listened with wry amusement at a story Legolas was telling about Thranduil’s favourite dish and how the filling was procured. He had a feeling that Legolas might have mentioned this before for the Hobbits were excited but not surprised. It was detailed enough to be true, he thought and he would put nothing past Thranduil in his ferocious defence of his folk. He sucked on his pipe and realised the pipe weed was gone so he took out the worn leather pouch from somewhere inside his robes and took his time filling the bowl of his pipe and then waving a hand over his staff so it glowed as he leaned forward and lit his pipe from it.

He caught a scandalised look from Gimli and raised a beetling eyebrow at the Dwarf as if daring him to speak of the sacrilege of using the Secret Fire to light a pipe.

‘…how do you eat all the legs?’Pippin was asking Legolas, wide-eyed.

‘You have a special implement,’Legolas looked down at Pippin seriously. ‘It has a small hammer to crack the carapace and you flip it so it is a spoon on the other, which you scoop out the meat.’

‘Hm,’Gimli grunted amicably. ‘I believe they are made in Erebor. I think I have made some myself.’

Gandalf watched then amused and thought how the threads of this were brought together; the son of Glóin, the nephew of Bilbo, the Heir of Isildur and his steward. How fitting that it should also bring the son of Thranduil to the House at this moment. They were all meant to be here. And as he had watched Legolas with the Hobbits and his gentleness with Sam, Olórin knew that there should be no great elven lord accompanying them, but this Elf from the Woods in simple green and brown. The Song was light in his heart and they did not need Power from the First Age or vengeful hearts. They needed a warrior true, but they needed one over whom the Ring had no Power, it could not give him what he wanted and his heart was light and he would keep the Hobbits merry and bright in times of the coming darkness. Legolas too, was strong against the Nazgûl for he had battled long in the South of Mirkwood. 

At last Frodo’s eyes began to close and his chin dropped to his chest. Sam immediately hushed the company and gently patted Frodo’s arm. ‘Mr Frodo? Shall I take you back to your room now? It’s very late and Pippin should have been in bed hours ago.’

Frodo lifted his heavy eyelids and smiled placatingly at Pippin and slowly Frodo and Sam took their leave.

Legolas looked up at the stars through the open window. He resembled Thranduil, thought Gandalf, in the strong profile and masculine beauty. But where Thranduil was ever determined and resolute, the moment had come when Legolas wavered. The Wizard saw it in his hesitation and abruptness in the way he stood for a moment looking down at the remaining Company. It was time, thought the Wizard, to make his point.

Legolas of course was unaware of the moment and simply said, ‘I will leave you now to wreathe yourselves in smoke and to drink ale. I am going to look at the stars.’

‘Aye and sing to them no doubt,’Gimli showed his hard white teeth and Legolas gave him an amused look.

‘No doubt.’

He was a little lonely, Gandalf realised and though in his heart he cringed at the advantage he was to take of this, he had done worse and took it nonetheless.

‘I am glad to see you so much recovered,’he said, delaying Legolas a moment longer. He saw Aragorn cast him a sideways glance that meant he knew what the Wizard was about.

Legolas nodded and glanced down at his shoulder. ‘It was nothing as a wound, but I have paid for my carelessness,’he said with more than a little disgust at himself.

‘It was easy to miss, Legolas,’Aragorn interjected. ‘And I am glad on my part at least, that I had time to get to know you better.’

Gandalf noticed the look of warm pleasure that stole over Legolas’face and he looked almost shy for a moment. ‘It was not only on your part,’said Legolas. He glanced over at Gimli and Boromir who were both listening. ‘For I am glad to have been delayed long enough to know you all better.’ He blushed a little in spite of the years he had over any of the mortals in the room and Gandalf puffed on his pipe and watched Legolas shrewdly. He said nothing though, letting the Elf lead himself to the obvious conclusion.

‘Well it has led you to stay longer than you might have otherwise,’Aragorn said nonchalantly and did not flick his gaze up.

‘Indeed,’ Legolas tilted his head to look at Aragorn, a little regretfully. ‘But I will leave as soon as Elrond says I may and that will be soon now I think…’ He paused and frowned slightly. ‘When I crossed the Mountains to get here, it was not a pleasant journey and I confess I do not look forward to it. In the Winter the High Pass will be blocked I am told, so if I leave before the Winter clears it will be by the Redhorn Gate I think.’

‘Ah,’said Gimli wisely. ‘Of course.’He glanced at Aragorn and then back at Legolas. ‘Is that not the route we will take ourselves?’he asked and Gandalf smiled inwardly at the obvious invitation in the Dwarf’s voice.

‘It is indeed,’Aragorn inclined his head, his gaze going from Gimli and back to Legolas expectantly.

But in spite of the clear intention of their remarks, Legolas seemed blithely oblivious, Gandalf thought a little irritably. And then the Elf said, ‘Of course I will stay at least until Glorfindel returns…I feel I need to know if Rhawion….’Words failed him then and he looked down at his hands and picked a loose thread on his tunic.

Ah, Gandalf realised, that was distracting Legolas so he did not see clearly the road that lay before him. The Wizard reached out, let a warm compassion flood through this body he had grown so used to, and seep into Legolas’own heart. _Hope_ , he breathed. _Hope_. It was always his gift, Olórin. ‘Do you wish to go home so soon when the adventure has only just begun?’he asked Legolas softly.

That brought the Elf to a stuttering halt. He stared at Gandalf with wide eyes, green as the Sea. For a moment a pang struck Gandalf, the Sea… there was danger in that…

‘You do not have to come with us to the end,’he said slowly, thinking that Minas Tirith was too close to the Sea and there was danger there for Legolas’ heart. But he tasted the Song for the rightness of what he was doing, feeling the sway and swirl of notes come together… yes. Whatever the flicker of concern this was right. ‘We are travelling over the Mountains as you. Why don’t you come with us?’he repeated.

 ‘It would make sense, Legolas,’Boromir added. ‘We could do with your sharp eyes and your bow. At least over the Mountains…Then, if you wish to return home, you will and we shall thank you.’

‘But surely a great Elf-lord will go with you? Someone like Glorfindel or Erestor? Or any other of the great Elf lords who dwell here?’Legolas said, still wide-eyed, but the glimmer of excitement was clear. ‘I thought my Lord Elrond said he would send but nine companions. I had thought Glorfindel …or one of his sons.’He said this last with a disappointment. ‘Surely you need someone who will bring a great Power?’

‘We have great Powers and warriors with us already,’said Gimli with a gleam of white teeth. ‘You will suffice as a look out perhaps.’He waved his pipe in Legolas’direction. ‘As long as we only have one hanger-on, Aragorn, we will cope. You can carry my bag, Legolas, and leave the warriors free to defend the Hobbits,’he added, drawing on his beautifully carved pipe.

Gandalf shot a look at Gimli but there was a peal of laughter from Legolas and Gandalf turned and stared. “If you are going, Gimli, the Company will definitely need me. You need someone to polish your boots.’

0o0o0o0o

tbc

 _Danwedh-amlung_ to boot. Dragon-ransom

Reference to ‘The Black Arrow’. Thranduil and Smaug strike a bargain of sorts and tells how Legolas got his tattoos.

Next chapter almost ready. Hope to not keep you waiting quite so long for it.


	28. Tindómion Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Spiced Wine. Happy Birthday.  
> Tindómion is her wonderful character who makes an appearance in this and the next chapter.
> 
> Beta; Fabulous Anarithilien.

It was late but Thranduil strode along the passageway that led from his audience chamber to his own rooms. He wanted to shut everything out, close the doors on the outside world and pore over  maps, spread them on his study table, the maps of Eregion, with the teeth of the Hithaeglir picked out a spine that ran down the back of Eregion and Rhovanion. He wanted to pull them towards himself and stare unseeing at the blotched writing, the marks he had made himself, of Dagorlad, of Mordor, of the journey home…He wanted to immerse himself in grief, to drink to oblivion. To forget what had happened and block out the insistent future. It was where Legolas was heading, his sweet child of the woods. He knew it. He had known it the moment he saw the eagle circle once and plummet from the sky…

 

That day he had been gathering roots and nuts along with many of his folk, Galion was ahead of him and flirting dangerously with Tauriwen, a rather lovely woman whose husband had been killed long years ago in the South. Thranduil rather thought that Tauriwen and Galion had had assignations previously for both were widowed and their bodies not yet appeased. He smiled and watched Galion covertly when a shout drew his attention. It was not an alarm but a warning nonetheless....

 

....Above them an eagle circled. It shrieked once and then folded its wings and plummeted. The speed of its approach was both shocking and exhilarating and a horrid sense of foreboding shot through Thranduil. He could see the white markings that indicated the bird was one of Gwaihir’s folk.

 

The Elves all stood and exclaimed. Its stoop would take it right amongst them.

 

‘It is one of the eagles of the Mountains,’ he said. His heart beat loudly, pounding in his chest like he had been running. It brought news of Legolas, he knew as clearly as he could see the eagle’s feathers. ‘One of Gwaihir’s folk.’ He kept his voice steady but knew that Galion had noticed the slight tremor and shot him a worried glance. Even now, Galion was making his way to his side. Thranduil stood ahead of his people to receive the eagle, as a King and warrior should.

 

The eagle was plummeting towards him at a terrible speed and he forced himself to stand still and not cover his head. Suddenly it propped like a shying horse and beat its wings back against the air so it gently dropped to the ground before him. He inclined his head graciously and assumed the mantle of kingship.

 

‘Welcome friend,’ he said. ‘You have news of my son.’

 

The great eagle cocked its head and regarded Thranduil with its sharp, bright eye, a predator’s eye. ‘I bring message, lord, from over the Mountain.’ Its voice was strange; a staccato, rasping sound and it lisped of course for an eagle with a beak had no lips to form the sounds as others would, and speech of this kind was strange to them. ‘Mithrandir sends his greetings and thanks you for the news from your son. He is dwelling in Imladris.’

 

‘Is he well?’ Thranduil could not help now the tremble in his voice and stepped forward in his anxiety to know.

 

But the eagle merely cocked its head in the way birds do, and regarded him with its other eye. ‘He dwells in…’

 

Thranduil stifled a sigh. The eagles had no real sense of wellness or safety. One lived or died. If one was sick, it was as one dead. He knew this from Gwaihir. They did not nurse the wounded though they would of course, fight to reach their allies and save them from Orcs. He had seen that himself at Erebor.

 

‘It is enough to know he lives,’ he acknowledged and that was true. ‘Does he return? The snows will be falling on the High Pass and without your strong wings, he will not be able to cross the Mountains,’ Thranduil said, hoping that the eagle might actually offer to bring Legolas back safely to him. But in his heart he knew even that was foolish for storms wracked the Mountains. He had only to wait until the Spring. Or perhaps Legolas would chance the Redhorn Gate?

 

‘I have a message from Mithrandir. And another from the lord Elrond. It is of great import.’ The yellow eye settled on Thranduil.  
‘Mithrandir’s message if you will, my friend,’ he said with steel in his eyes and voice but a terrible sense of loss in his heart, a father’s heart. He would lose Legolas, his sweet child of the Wood, more Woodelf than any of his sons. He reached out and found Galion holding him by the elbow, keeping him upright so none would see his faltering. He blinked and caught Galion’s eyes watching him with troubled concern.

 

‘Give your message,’ he said pulling himself upright once more.

 

The eagle’s yellow eye was bright and piercing. ‘Very well. This is what Mithrandir bid me tell you, Lord of the Wood: Legolas is well. He has given me your message. I grieve for your loss and as your duty to me not yet discharged, I ask a boon of you.’

 

Thranduil barely breathed. He cast his glance obliquely towards Galion, knowing he was there, knowing he would be watching intently. ‘My duty to Mithrandir!’ he murmured quietly, bitterly. ‘My duty to Mithrandir left my folk grieving our dead…’ He drew a breath for he knew too that Mithrandir had ever been a friend of the Wood. Galion shifted closer to him and Thranduil felt the warmth of his friend against his arm.

 

The eagle blinked slowly, and cocked its head again. It seemed puzzled for a moment and then it said, ‘I am to say this from Mithrandir: I ask that Legolas stay in my service for a little longer. I will see him safe across the Mountains though I cannot guarantee when you will see him again.’

 

Thranduil threw out his hand towards the eagle as if to ward off the words, and closed his eyes. Nauriel’s dreadful curse resounded from those months ago when they returned without her son, without delivering the milui-criss, without even his body for her to keen over and to bury with her bereft heart: I hope you find what it is to lose a son.

 

Thranduil clutched at his tunic then above his heart, and felt like doubling over for the pain that struck him......

 

He did not of course. He had shown none of his despair but thanked the eagle courteously, waved Galion away to pursue the woman he was flirting with earlier, and glanced back at his people who had heard the eagle’s words and gathered behind him, concerned and distressed as they would be for any of their own who were far from them, for he had wished to speak to the eagle alone.

 

The somewhat cryptic messages from Elrond had merely confirmed what he had guessed;  the One Ring had indeed been found as he had thought. It was the precious thing that Gollum had found, long long ago and he had lost it. Bilbo Baggins had somehow found it and that was what had unsettled him about Bilbo… there had sometimes been a ringing in his ears when the Hobbit was close. A whisper from the hidden resentment he buried in his heart, a desire for Power that was not his…It had been the Ring uncovering his weakness.

 

He had hoped that Elrond had had the wit to send for Bilbo and bring him to Imladris where he was safe, for a while at least… for a while…And then slowly the realisation had come upon him…The Ring must already be there, and somehow, as he foretold, Gollum’s escape was bound up in its fate. Mithrandir’s promise of seeing Legolas’ safely across the Mountains was something at least, he supposed gloomily, but the Wizard’s words were double-edged for once across the Mountains, what then?

 

Of course the realisation hit him not longer after; Mithrandir wanted Legolas to cross the mountains with him, with Mithrandir. It did not take a wily old King to work out why he wanted someone of Legolas’ calibre with him for a simple mountain crossing. He would be taking the Ring.

 

Now he kicked open the door of his study, a decanter of old wine in one hand and a candlestick in the other. It was late, he knew but he could not sleep and looked for oblivion. He pulled and shoved at the maps that were scattered over his table, moved away the map of the Wood that tracked his folk’s desperate attempts to hold back the Shadow, the villages and spider attacks… his sons. And the map he unrolled now was torn at the edges and stained, as if it had not forgotten the blood and mud of battle. As if it had not forgotten the dreadful loss…

 

He stared at it now but with unseeing eyes for his mind was turned inwards reading again Elrond’s message. The Ring was indeed found and through his oblique references and coded words, Thranduil guessed what they intended. And it was the most foolish thing he had ever heard.

 

The Dead Marshes were marked on the map but he saw instead a terrible slaughter, heard the sound of battle, the clash and din of swords clanging, the roar of Orcs and Goblins, of wargs and finally, at last, the battle cry of Gil-Galad. As Thranduil stood amongst the bloody wounded bodies of his own warriors, he saw his own father struggling towards him with his arm about a wounded Elf who swooned and dragged him down. Thranduil turned, his hair plastered against his skin in the rain, blood washed from his bright sword, stained his light leather armour while the Noldor gleamed and held back, held back and did not come…until now. The shining steel of their sword and spears finally broke upon the ranks of Orcs that hacked and beat the Woodelves, a sacrifice so the Noldor could lure Sauron out of his dark tower.

 

Dagorlad.

 

Mordor.

 

Folly! he thought. Fools to walk into the Fire like this.

 

And amongst all this was the Heir of Isildur to reclaim his throne, he thought. For he knew well who Aragorn was. Even when the Man delivered Smeagol to the Woodland Realm, Thranduil had seen the resemblance to his forefathers and through careful questioning easily deduced the truth; fostered by Elrond, one of the Dunédain, the grey eyes that Thranduil could see held foresight.

 

But it was not Elrond, or Mithrandir, the Heir of Isildur or even the One Ring which he thought of now. It was Legolas.  
I ask that Legolas stay in my service for a little longer. I will see him safe across the Mountains though I cannot guarantee when you will see him again.

 

Double-edged words indeed, he thought. Safe across the Mountain, with the One Ring  amongst them. Safe was clearly defined differently amongst the Istari. And Legolas would not turn north once they had crossed the Mountains. He knew his child as well as anyone could; Legolas would go with them. It was not in his nature to turn away and Mithrandir knew that, relied upon it. Nine companions for the Ringbearer. One for each of the Nine riders, the Nazgûl, Elrond’s message said. Legolas for the Elves. His mouth twisted bitterly. He loved Legolas dearly but he was no match for the Nazgûl, Thranduil thought tossing back wine and not tasting it. Elrond did not send his own sons, he noted. Or Glorfindel or any of the other great elven lords who dwelled in Imladris.  He poured more wine into a goblet and gulped at it.

 

The door opened quietly and a tall figure stood in the doorway, framed and limned with torchlight from the passageway. The figure walked with a careful elegance towards Thranduil and lay a hand on his shoulder, looked down at the map spread before him.

 

‘Why do you look at this?’  Thalos pushed the map aside although Thranduil could not take his eyes from it. ‘It makes you morose, Father…Here.’ Thalos tapped a place on the map of Rhovanion and Eregion, split apart by the teeth of the Hithaeglir.

‘This is where Legolas will cross Caradhras. It will be nothing for Legolas and Mithrandir, or any others who travel with them.’

 

‘Caradhras the Cruel,’ Thranduil said in a soft voice, remembering. And Thalos reached out and laid his hand upon his father’s arm.

 

‘That is true,’ Thalos  said cautiously, seemingly unwilling to stir yet more memories. He sighed for they could not truly forget any of the Past. ‘Many an unwary traveller has been claimed by the cold and by stone, by goblins. I have heard that it was on Caradhras that Elrond’s wife was taken…But it will not be so with Legolas. And not with Mithrandir at his side,’ he said with confidence.

 

Thranduil shifted slightly and hoped that Thalos was right; it was Legolas, he reminded himself; stealthy, skillfull, his awareness of the Song was strong and he had Mithrandir with him.

 

’They will come down into the Dimrill Dale and from there Legolas will strike out North and back here.’ Thalos smiled. ‘Shall I go and meet him, bring him back?’

 

Thranduil pulled the old map towards him, his father’s map, back once more. He drank the wine without tasting and stared morosely at the markings, the crossings out and where his own hand had written; the Dead Marshes, Dagorlad. Mordor.  
It was not Caradhras he feared.

 

His hand trembled and wine sloshed carelessly over the glass and onto the map.  He felt cold and touched the dark wine with his finger, seeing his sweet child of green and gold like sunlight on new beech leaves. He saw him standing, as he had done himself an Age ago, before the Black Gates and the Nazgûl roosting like gargoyles on the huge towers. He saw a red glow like fire beyond the gates and knew, without doubt, that Legolas would go with the Ring Bearer, would go with Mithrandir and stand before the Black Gate. His sweet child, in such danger that Thranduil could not think of it. He stood staring at the old map he had thought never to look at again. Mordor.

 

0o0o

 

When Galadhon and his small troop of anxious-looking Elves had arrived back at the stronghold, it became real.  Thranduil found that harder than anything. Not only because they had not crossed the Hithaeglir to bring Legolas back with them regardless of any promise extracted by Mithrandir, but they also brought with them Legolas’ horse. She had come to them when she heard the voices of the Elves and other horses. She stepped out of the brush, Galadhon told Thranduil, where she had been hiding, waiting for Legolas’ return as they had intended.

 

Thranduil himself settled her in a stable, finding the brushing of her coat to a gleaming shine soothing, and her solid munching of sweet hay restful. Sweet Gwileth merely turned her head and regarded him when he brushed her flanks particularly hard and he clucked a small apology. She was a tough little thing, he thought, stroking her soft nose and she turned back to the hay he had heaped in her manger; she had survived on her own in the Wild waiting for Legolas. He loved her for that.  
His sweet child was on his way to Mordor.

 

‘We will both go and meet him,’ Thranduil promised her. ‘And this time I will not be persuaded by Galion or Laersul that it should not be I who goes. We will ride down the Western edge of the Wood and be waiting in the Dimrill Dale for him and then bring him back. And with any luck, we will come across plenty of Orcs and Goblins so I do not feel like killing Mithrandir when I meet him.’  
 

 

0o0o

 

It was almost Yule and still they awaited the return of the scouts and messengers that Gandalf and Elrond had sent out to gather news. Legolas knew now that a messenger had already been sent to his father and wished with all his heart that he had known before, that he might have written a letter.

 

Gandalf’s own message for Thranduil reassured the King that Legolas was safe and that Gandalf, would see Legolas safely over the Mountain. He chewed his lip, wondering how his father would receive the news and knowing full well that Thranduil was just as likely as not to cross the Hithaeglir himself and appear in Imladris to bring Legolas back home. He smiled at the idea, wondering what effect that would have on the serenity and peace of Imladris to have a host of Woodelves in their midst, led by his angry father.

 

It would not be so bad if it were Thalos, he thought longingly. And perhaps Galadhon. But already Legolas knew he would not simply abandon them when they reached the Dimrill Dale, not if they would have him. It was not in him.

 

And that would take him to the Black Gates of Mordor.

 

That news would drive his father into his study, with a half empty goblet staring down at the map of Eregion and another of Rhovanion, held down by whatever there was at hand, much to the annoyance of Galion. Then he would slowly unroll the map of Dagorlad and stare at it unhappily until he sank into misery, remembering the dreadful slaughter before the Black Gates.  
Legolas found a loose thread on the sleeve of his tunic and tugged at it anxiously, lost in thought. He closed his eyes and found his chest hurt, and then lifted his hand to rub it for the hurt was physical and he wished again he had been able to send some small note of reassurance. But in truth, what would he have said? Reassurance that he was on his way home… if in a little roundabout way? That he was safe and well, and on his way to Mordor?

 

He sighed. Maybe it was better he had sent no note after all.

 

Gimli had seemed to know somehow that Legolas was bothered and had taken it into his head to teach Legolas to play the fiddle. He had scraped a scratchy tune that sounded more like a cat wailing than music, as Gimli loudly and cheerfully informed him. But the Dwarf was an immensely patient teacher and Pippin was supervising. Which meant Pippin would lie on a bench and smoke his pipe and bring along cakes and tea for refreshment. Legolas found that he enjoyed himself. His playing was dreadful and he had taken to practising on his own. But he had not realised he even had neighbours to his room until someone very politely knocked on his door and asked him if he was all right. Then the rather mussed looking Elf who had knocked had suggested he take himself to a more remote part of the Valley to practise until he was more proficient. And he had done so.

 

Elemé had been passing and he stopped her. She gave him a strange look when he told her his mission and she laughed but said, ‘I can show you somewhere that will keep you from prying eyes and complaining neighbours,’ se said with a saucy toss of her hair, which was long and glossy and chestnut brown, Legolas realised watching her pull her fingers through the curls. She had green eyes too and a pretty mouth that she pursed when she looked up at him like she wanted him to kiss her. 

‘There is a quiet wing of the House, and a lawn beneath it up over there.’ She pointed away to the left towards the cliffs overlooking the Bruinen. ‘Everyone is away so you will not disturb anyone,’ Elemé told him smiling. ‘Shall I show you where?’ she asked coyly and fluttered her long eyelashes at him so he felt his mouth drop open and he stared. When she brushed against him as if by accident, her breasts were full and warm and he half closed his eyes thinking how soft, how smooth would be her skin, and how ripe her nipples.

 

Already he was filling with lust and his cock gave a little surge of interest. And he almost leaned down and kissed her right then and there except he remembered himself; she was in love with Berensul, and he with her. Or at least, they thought they were and Legolas decided he did not want to become more embroiled in that tangled knot than he already was.

 

‘Thank you but if you tell me where it is, I will find it,’ he said a little regretfully.

 

Her eyes widened and her eyelashes batted again, and she said breathily, ‘Why don’t I go with you?’

 

Legolas laughed and shook his head. ‘I do not think I would practise the fiddle if I went with you.’

 

‘If you prefer to fiddle on your own, then good luck to you, my lord,’  she said archly and when she walked away there was a sway to her hips that had him regretting his resolve.

 

He smiled ruefully for she was more than a match for Berensul, he thought and for a moment he understood why Berensul acted as he did; trying to keep Elemé to himself was going to be impossible, he thought and wondered if those two would not be much happier in the Wood amongst the Silvan elves who had no such buttoned up and hide-bound morals.

 

He was considering this as he followed the general direction that she pointed in and walked slowly across a lawn that seemed less manicured and well kept than the others. A wide stone step curled up the side of the House and led to another terrace that was indeed away from everyone else, positioned on the West side of the House and overlooking the Bruinen. And the roar of the river was loud enough that his efforts were suitably dimmed. He smiled to himself and tucked the fiddle beneath his chin as Gimli has shown him and went for a light skiff over the strings that sounded liquid and heart wrenching when Gimli had shown him. It sounded like the cat Boromir had suggested it would when Legolas played it.

 

But he was nothing if not determined and if he could master one  bow, he told himself grimly sawing away at the strings, he could certainly master this!

 

He had been sawing away at the strings for some time when he heard crisp footsteps coming towards him and he glanced up to see a tall Elf whom he had never met before, although his striking face seemed oddly familiar, striding briskly towards him with a set expression on his handsome face. Legolas faltered and let the bow fall to his side. The Elf’s eyes were the strangest shade of light grey as to be almost silver, mercurial and intent on him and his hair was burnished bronze. Had he been any less himself he would have stepped back for the intensity of that silver gaze was fiercesome and intimidating. Even Orcs would fall back from that gaze, he thought to himself and wondered where he had heard something like that before.*

 

‘Is that awful noise coming from you?’ demanded the Elf and as he drew close, Legolas saw that he was tall and broad-shouldered. A swordsman he was for he wore a great sword at his hip that was of exceptional workmanship;  the scabbard was some sort of black metal and mithril scrolled and curled about it. The hilt of the sword was set with the deepest ruby Legolas had ever seen and it was shot through by the sunlight. The Elf wore a black tunic with a five pointed star emblem on the shoulder that Legolas thought he should recognise but he had always been a lazy student. His face too was familiar but he could not think where he had seen him before and dismissed it as having seen him and not realised, although he was surprised he had not tasked more note of the striking face and the unusual and intense eyes. He was surprised because a surge of lust forced its way through his groin and belly.  But he ruthlessly suppressed it.

 

‘I’m not sure I would describe it as awful,’ he defended himself weakly and without conviction. ‘It is developing,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘It was much worse yesterday.’

 

The Elf reached out and before he could stop him, the Elf had taken the fiddle from him. Legolas lifted his hands in horror to stop the Elf from breaking it and putting him and the fiddle out of their misery when he stopped.

 

For the Elf lifted the fiddle instead and plucked at one of the strings, his head tilted to one side and eyes vague and focused on nothing. The fiddle twanged uncomfortably and the the Elf tutted and sighed. He muttered to himself under his breath and began turning the keys on the stem. Legolas blinked in surprise and watched as the Elf twanged the next string, shook his head in disgust and again, twiddled with the keys. Finally he tucked the fiddle under his own chin and drew the bow lovingly over the strings. Liquid, clear, the voice of the fiddle was heartbreakingly lovely, a melody Legolas had never heard but the Elf stopped abruptly and nodded as if satisfied and then looked at Legolas.

 

‘Here,’ he said less abruptly, handing the fiddle back to Legolas. ‘It is tuned now. At least if you are going to murder the Noldolantë, it will not be the fiddle’s fault.’

 

He turned and stalked back across the rough lawn, wide shouldered, lean hipped, the sword jutting. Legolas realised the tunic he wore was spattered with blood and rusty stains that Legolas knew was old blood, and his boots were muddy. His face was somehow familiar too but he could not think where he had seen him for it was certainly not anywhere in Imladris, he was certain. He would have remembered the handsome face and striking eyes, that fall of gleaming bronze hair. This was someone just arrived, or returned and he came to his senses.

 

‘I beg your pardon!’ he called after the receding back of the Elf. The Elf did not turn but lifted a hand dismissively in response. ‘I will find somewhere else to practise, forgive me for disturbing you,’ he called a little louder but the Elf still did not turn. ‘My name is Legolas…’  And though the Elf paused mid-stride, he still did not turn or even acknowledge him and disappeared behind shrubs that lined the path. Legolas heard the clipped footsteps striding up the steps and then a few moments later, a door slammed shut.

 

Legolas let the fiddle fall to his side, holding it loosely in his hand and stared at the empty space on the path where the Elf had gone. Then he had a positively good idea and decided to practise elsewhere and when he had improved, to stand here and play beautifully and so impress this warrior who thought of him only as a hopeless minstrel. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this idea was what Gimli would call Pippin-ish but he shook his head, no. It was a really good idea and would reward the Elf for his kindness in putting the fiddle right, however brusquely it was done.

 

He did not improve. He really didn’t.

 

It was a few nights later in the Hall of Fire that he discovered the identity of the strange Elf. He had joined Amron and some of his fellow warriors lounging near the entrance. One or two had just returned from a stint at Amon Sul and Legolas was keen to hear news. Elrond had posted more watches there since Frodo had been attacked and the warriors were glad to have been relieved from their watch by the new patrol and Amron had dragged Legolas along to meet them. And there was the tall, bronze-haired Elf standing slightly apart from the warriors but speaking with them.  His whole poise suggested command. He was taller than most, and the sculpted features of his face, the cheekbones, the full mouth and extraordinary eyes that were piercing, mercurial, striking against the bronze hair. There was a slight air of arrogant defiance about him that appealed to Legolas and he was listening to what one of the men was saying. Then he replied courteously, inclined his head.  
Legolas hurried over but the tall Elf had already moved off before Legolas could reach the small group.

 

Amron turned to him, smiling and the group of men moved to let Legolas in for he knew them quite well now. ‘Legolas! I wondered if you would join us. Are you ready yet to give us a tune on the fiddle?’

 

Legolas shook his head smiling in return. ‘I would clear the Hall more quickly than your singing,’ he said. He nodded towards the handsome warrior who had just left and said, ‘He heard my awful playing and came out to protest. I wished to apologise for disturbing him.’

 

‘That is the lord Tindómion*,’ Amron had said in an admiring tone. ‘He has been holding the watch tower of Amon-Sul these last few weeks since the attack by the Nazgûl upon it. He is a great warrior of very high birth, kin to Gil-Galad it is said. He came with my lord Elrond from Mithlond when Gil-Galad fell.’

 

‘Ah!’ Legolas suddenly realised where he had seen Tindómion’s face; he had been faithfully depicted in the tapestries of the Last Alliance in the halls of Imladris, riding at Glorfindel’s side and wielding a great silver sword with a ruby in its hilt. It had struck Legolas when he was looking for any representation of his own father or grandfather.

 

The song that was being sung by a small group of minstrels ended and there was a polite scatter of applause. Then Lindir, who was the most popular minstrel, stepped forward and was waving towards someone.

 

‘I have just returned with Tindómion,’ said one of the men with Amron. He frowned. ‘It has been strange, this patrol. It seems the Shadow is on the move,’ he said in a low voice. Legolas looked at him sharply. ‘There were wights on the downs, and traces of Nazgûl on the watchtower.’

 

A low murmur went round the small group and Amron clapped the man on the shoulder, a slight warning. ‘These are not stories for this place,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Look, Lindir has asked Tindómion to sing.’ A ripple of excitement went through the hall.  
Lindir struck his usual pose for singing, which Legolas privately thought rather exaggerated and pretentious, but Tindómion sat quietly, without fuss, and held a hand harp lightly in his hands. He leaned forwards and the firelight gleamed on his bronze hair, burnished it deeply and Legolas felt his impressionable heart give a little thump and his groin give a more assertive surge.  
Tindómion ran his fingers lightly across the strings and a lovely liquid sound washed over them, and the hall went silent. Lindir’s voice was, even Legolas had to admit, very pure, but when Tindómion ’s voice joined his, he had one of the most evocative and rich voices Legolas had ever heard and he was spell bound by its power and wished with all his might that he were in the Wood and the strange customs of Imladris did not hold sway for he would have thrown all caution to the wind and taken a cup of wine to the harpist, suggested they find somewhere else to drink it…

 

He regretted his resolve to keep to the restrictive and harsh laws of Imladris…his head dropped and he sighed heavily. It was so hard. At that moment, Elemé brushed past him with a saucy look and he was hard pressed not to follow her. But he did not.

 

   
0o0o0o

 

The next days seemed to drag. Elrond waited for all his scouts and messengers to return but Legolas could not really see why that was necessary. The Nazgûl were gone, fled back to Mordor, and there seemed little to do unless they waited for Spring, which Gandalf and Aragorn both said they would not do. They wanted the secrecy and quiet of the Winter and it was clear they could only cross the Hithaeglir through the Redhorn Gate on high Caradhras. It was Legolas’ own path anyway and he was impatient now that all trace of the poison was gone from his body and he felt his balance and harmony restored. The tinny ringing in his ears afflicted him now and again but seemed to be fading, although he noticed it more when in the company of the Hobbits. 

 

Gandalf encouraged Legolas to spend time with the Hobbits and with Gimli, which he did gladly for he found their company restful. He had made sure he built his strength back up properly, sparring with Gimli and Boromir, and learned a great deal from both about fighting opponents with axes and swords. It had improved his own sword-work although it was never going to be his weapon of choice. Occasionally Aragorn wanted his company to talk about their trail, to trace their journey over maps showing the paths and trails that led to the Redhorn Gate. And though Aragorn had travelled the way several times, he wanted to make sure he had every landmark carefully fixed in his head. Legolas was intrigued watching him for he had never been a great pathfinder. That skill had been Anglach’s, not his. And more than once Gimli, when he had joined them, had asked if Aragorn intended to go beneath the Mountain and through Moria.

 

The name itself brought a cold shiver to Legolas. He could not imagine anything worse than travelling beneath the Mountain through Khazad-dûm, even if Balin had indeed founded a new realm. But when he voiced his concern, Gimli had turned on him with a ferocity that had him puzzled and angry in return for he had made no slight against the Dwarf’s kin. It was a comfort to him that Aragorn shared Legolas’ view that they would not take the road through Moria.

 

At last nearly all the messengers and scouts had returned and Aragorn and Gandalf were much taken up in counsel with Elrond. Legolas knew they waited upon the return of Elrond’s sons though none seemed to know where they had gone, and Legolas did not much care and so did not try to find out.

 

It was one dusk near Yule when the whole House seemed thrown into disarray and there were Elves rushing and flying everywhere. He caught Berensul as he passed.

 

‘Have you not heard? The troop has returned with Glorfindel and Erestor. With them are Elrohir and Elladan. Elladan is much hurt and my lord Erestor beside himself. I cannot stop. I am sorry but we all have much to do.’ He whirled and sped off leaving Legolas staring after him.

 

If Glorfindel and Erestor were returned, they would have news of Rhawion and the dreams he had suffered. Although he felt embarrassed now for the fuss he had made was clearly brought about by the poison and by the sound of things, his insistence had put two of the last great Elf lords of the First Age in grievous danger. He was sorry too to hear that Elladan was injured for he had been kind, even if Legolas thought he was as violent as his brother. Both had tortured the Orc and both had forced the crystôl upon Legolas himself…But he was nothing if honest with himself and he wondered now if he had behaved quite honourably in a realm that was not his own. Thranduil would take a dim view of anyone interfering with his justice, he thought wryly. But no Woodelf was so merciless, he argued with himself as he made his way to supper in the Great Hall.

 

He was greeted warmly by a few of the Elves now for he had made some friends amongst the warriors and their families though all thought he lingered until the Spring. The quest of the Ring was secret and none but those most in Elrond’s council had any idea of the immensity of the terrible weapon hidden amongst them.

 

Boromir and Gimli were already there and had both heaped their plates with meat and bread. He sat opposite them and listened with half an ear to their small talk, which was of the qualities of axes against swords, but he listened too for news of Glorfindel, for he was desperate to find out if they had found anything at Phellanthir that could account for his strange obsession with believing Rhawion was somehow trapped there.

 

Pippin joined them later but he knew less than Legolas himself and so Legolas could only eat and listen to Pippin’s description of his day. It was, as Pippin said, pretty much like any ordinary day in the Shire. It seemed to Legolas that the Hobbits spent their days in eating, telling stories, eating, sitting about eating, gossiping, eating, smoking pipeweed  and eating. He thought it rather an idyllic existence.

 

‘…resting peacefully now. Still I for one am glad they reached us when they did. It could have been so much worse in spite of….’  
He turned at that familiar, resonant voice. Glorfindel walked through the Hall with another Elf. Tindómion’s handsome face was turned towards Glorfindel and the two were deep in conversation.

 

‘…and you say the evil has passed from him?’ Tindómion asked in a low voice as they passed Legolas. His head was bent towards Glorfindel and his long hair gleamed bronze, caught copper and gold glints.

 

‘I cannot tell…there is still a very evil presence there. I think the danger still exists and the …’ Glorfindel lowered his voice then and not even Legolas could hear. He turned his head to try to hear for he wished with all his heart to hear news of Rhawion’s fëa. The movement caught Glorfindel’s eye.

 

‘Ah! Legolas!’ Glorfindel suddenly stopped and looked down at Legolas kindly. Tindómion too looked at Legolas curiously as if he had not really noticed him before. And Legolas thought he probably had not. Why should he? His very light grey eyes, almost silver, held a fire in them that seemed to Legolas very perilous, as if once stirred, would not be banked.

 

Suddenly the ringing in his ears began, a thin, high-pitched whine that put him off balance and the fork he held slipped and he just caught it before it clattered noisily to the floor. He saw out of the corner of his eye Gimli’s startled look and Boromir reach out as if he could catch him. Embarrassed, he returned the fork to the table, not looking up.

 

‘I am pleased to see you up and about!’ Glorfindel said kindly, and finally remembering the manners that had been drummed into him as a child, Legolas stumbled belatedly to his feet.

 

‘My lords,’ he said, feeling gauche and rustic, a fool. Tindómion gave him a curious glance and he felt himself growing hot and was disgusted with his own foolishness; why it was that he was so afflicted with self-doubt only in Imladris he could not say. In any other place he was far from this clumsy idiot that he had become.

 

‘I see you are not quite recovered,’ Glorfindel was saying in a concerned voice. He let his hand fall upon Legolas’ uninjured shoulder and the warmth spread up from his shoulder to his face and Legolas knew he was blushing like a maid. He cringed inwardly but thought that perhaps that was the case.

 

‘I am almost completely recovered, my lord. Thanks to Aragorn, and you of course,’ he added hastily.

 

But Glorfindel merely smiled kindly and said, ‘I did nothing. It is Elrohir whom you must thank. Even if I still say I would not have given that second dose of crystôl, here you are and on your feet. When last I saw you, it was all you could do to hang on to Aragorn.’ He turned to Tindómion and said, ‘Legolas was the one who brought Rhawion’s body from the Tower, and at great cost to himself. And he is one of the best archers I have ever seen.’ 

\  
Tindómion looked at Legolas with interest. ‘Indeed I have heard already of your prowess as an archer. From Saeldir no less so it must be true.’ Tindómion’s gaze upon Legolas intensified. He felt himself scrutinised, slowly unpicked and he almost blushed. But then the lord smiled slightly, as if amused, as if pleased with what he saw.

 

‘Well I will certainly wager you that Legolas is the winner of any competition,’ Glorfindel declared and Legolas blushed with delight that Glorfindel thought so.

 

‘Against all comers?’ Tindómion asked wryly and the two lords shared a laugh that Legolas did not understand so he knew they were old friends..

‘Yes. Against all comers,’ Glorfindel looked down at Gimli. ‘Do you not agree? We saw enough on the field to take that, do you not think Master Gimli?’

’It is because you have not seen the archers of Erebor,’ Gimli declared but he was smiling widely and Legolas was secretly relieved at having the spotlight of the Elf-lords’ attention elsewhere for a moment. ‘Our friend is passable I suppose. But he does need someone to watch his back. Too busy talking to the trees and singing to the stars to be much aware of what is going on. It’s a wonder he was not killed.’

‘I hear that you two will be crossing the Hithaeglir together,’ Glorfindel said amused. ‘Will there be enough room in Rhovanion for the pair of you I wonder?’

‘He has to have someone to look after him,’ Gimli bellowed loudly so that other Elves and Men looked around, some smiling and some frowning. Legolas did not know if it was he that they disapproved of, or Gimli. ‘And Boromir too is headed that way for his journey lies South.’

‘Aye, and the sooner the better,’ the Man said grimly. Legolas glanced quickly at him; Boromir had seemed to grow more distant and quiet over the weeks they had been waiting to set off and he had confided in Legolas that he worried that Gondor had been overrun and Minas Tirith besieged. Legolas too worried for his homeland though he had sworn in his heart that he would not abandon Frodo and that he would earn the trust that Aragorn said the people of the Wood had failed. But he still had no news of Rhawion and it burned in his heart.

‘The High Pass is closed,’ said Tindómion carefully, his extraordinary eyes were cool now and fixed upon Boromir. Legolas thought that if he had been guarding the Old Road above Amon Sul, he must surely be privy to the news of the Ring. ‘Which way did you come?’

‘I came by the Gap of Rohan,’ said Boromir proudly. ‘They are friends and allies of Gondor and will ever aid us in our hour of need. And that will come all too quickly if we do not have aid…’ He paused and there was not one person present who did not hear the unspoken words of reproach that no aid was forthcoming from the Elves.

‘Alas, all are beset,’ said Tindómion and if his gaze had been cool, his voice was ice. ‘Would that we could spare any to ride to Gondor’s aid but the enemy even now seeks to move against us.’

Boromir said nothing but his face was hard and unyielding. It was into this uncomfortable silence that Legolas, unable to wait any longer for a suitable moment, said, ‘My lord, I am almost ashamed to ask now…but did you find anything? In Phellanthir?’

Glorfindel went very still and a shadow crossed his lovely, fearless face. His grip on Legolas’ shoulder tightened slightly. ‘Yes. We did.’ He breathed in and then glanced at Legolas’ anxious face and smiled slightly. ‘It was fortuitous indeed that you sent us back there. But of that I will not speak here.’ He looked intently at Legolas then and Legolas almost forgot to breathe for the intensity of Glorfindel’s regard was a physical sensation. ‘You wish to know of Rhawion of course…Do not fear for him now. He is gone. At peace. You can rest too.’

Overwhelmed, Legolas felt such relief sweep over him that he thought he might weep so he sat down hard upon the bench. ‘Thank you my lord.’ Then he remembered. ‘And Elladan? How is he?’

Glorfindel’s face grew sober. ‘He is very poor indeed. But it is kind that you ask. He is in the best possible hands and there are many who would give their life for him.’ He glanced cryptically at Tindómion, who returned the gaze with a serious look of his own but they did not speak more for suddenly both threw their heads up and looked away to their left like a clarion had called them to arms, a trumpet.

Legolas turned to follow their fierce, intent gaze and saw that Elrohir had stalked into the hall from a far entrance and looked about him with what Legolas thought was disdain. But when the son of Elrond’s eye alighted upon Glorfindel and then Tindómion, he looked almost overwhelmed with emotion and Legolas felt ashamed, for Elrohir’s brother lay wounded though Legolas knew not how badly or what had wounded him.

Elrohir walked swiftly towards the two lords and Glorfindel went to meet him, taking him by the elbow and speaking urgently in a very low voice that no one would hear. Elrohir’s head was bowed and he nodded once, then looked away as if overcome. Once his troubled grey eyes brushed over Legolas and paused, his lips parted slightly and eyes widened so Legolas thought he might throw an insult or call him out, but he did not. He looked down and bent his head to listen to what Glorfindel said in a low, urgent voice.

Tindómion turned his head to look first at Legolas, then to Gimli and Boromir. ‘Forgive us. As you can see, we are awaiting news and our manners desert us. By your leave.’ He bowed slightly and then he too joined Glorfindel and the three Elves went out of the Great Hall and Legolas was left with Gimli and Boromir looking at each other.

Gimli helped himself to a passing platter of rare roast meat and piled more onto his own plate. ‘Well, I for one hope that Elladan recovers. He has a good heart and treated you fair when you were at the grave’s edge, Legolas.’

Legolas glanced at him. He had not really known who or what was happening then, only that he had been stuck in that dreadful place, being swallowed whole by the Dark. He shuddered. ‘I would thank him if I could,’ he said humbly. ‘You will have to guide me in making amends, Gimli. I remember very little from the time Aragorn saw the wound to when I awoke and was riding behind Aragorn.’

‘’Twas the sons of Elrond who treated you, although I would not let the other one near you unless Elladan agreed. He was very careful in his treatment of you. It is to Aragorn and him that you owe your life, whatever Glorfindel says.’  
Legolas found a loose thread on his tunic, and as was his habit when he was upset and because there was no one there who knew him well enough to stop him, he tugged at it gently until it came lose. He knew that there had been a moment when he was truly lost in the poison that Elrohir had reached him and truly saved him from being overwhelmed by the poison. He owed both Elladan and Elrohir his life. ‘I will seek a chance to thank them both,’ he said contritely. ‘And my heart is much eased to know that Rhawion has peace.’  
   
Gimli grunted agreement and patted Legolas’ arm kindly. ‘I hope this means you can lay that ghost to rest. We will be leaving soon and I am glad that we have some resolution to this.’  
   
But Boromir said nothing and merely stared morosely into his cup. He rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache and though Legolas and Gimli tried to engage him, he barely answered and in end, retired to bed.  
   
   
O0o0o0  
   
   
   
End of the first part of the chapter. Next part to follow quickly.


	29. Tindomion part 2

For Spiced Wine- her wonderful character, Tindómion is making an appearance as a very belated birthday present. He is the illegitimate son of Maglor - but read any of her fabulous works to get totally immersed in her 'verse.

And for Naledi - just because she will enjoy this and it was her birthday too.

Warning: slash m/m. Fëanorians and Legolas being his usual hopelessly promiscuous self. If you like a virginal pure Legolas you've probably given up reading ages ago.

Beta: As always, Anarithilen, without whom nothing is possible!

Thanks to those faithful reviewers who continue to encourage and review- freddie, cheeky beak, thislittelpiggy, Melusine and new reviewer, Layne Wolf- thank you for taking the time to review.

Chapter 28: Tindómion.

Gimli and Boromir had long sought their beds and Legolas was still restless; he found himself wishing he were home. He had that nervous energy that was typical before going on a journey or setting off on patrol in the South, a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He sought out Amron for news and company.

He thought the barracks empty until he heard a loud cheer and tracked it down to a card game that Amron was losing heavily to Saeldir. They were surrounded by a merry crowd of Imladrian warriors, a few he knew but most he did not. When he saw Legolas, Amron gave him a rueful smile and shrugged as he passed over a small pouch of coin. Saeldir threw it into the air and caught it cheerfully, slapped Amron on the back and said something to him that Legolas could not catch. Almost immediately, another hand of cards was dealt and a new game had begun.

'Are you joining the game?' said a voice with a smile.

He turned to see the Imladrian lord, Tindómion lounging against a door post, arms folded and his long bronze hair pulled back into one thick braid that reached his hips. There was a slight smile on his full lips and his pale-grey eyes regarded Legolas keenly. Legolas inclined his head slightly in respectful acknowledgment.

'I did not think to,' he said hesitantly, glancing towards the game. A cheer went up as someone threw down a card.

Tindómion raised a mocking eyebrow. 'This is not the courageous Legolas Thranduillion of whom I have heard so much!' His eyes lingered for a moment on Legolas so that Legolas wondered what else he had heard.

He must have look worried for Tindómion said more gently, 'Do not be concerned. Glorfindel speaks very well of you.' He nodded towards the gathered men, intent upon their game. 'Amron says you are a loyal friend who would not leave his comrade in such a dark place as Phellanthir.' His eyes were intense, like molten silver thought Legolas. Tindómion smiled slightly. 'My House has always prized loyalty above all else.' He tilted his head slightly to look into Legolas's eyes.

'My lord Glorfindel is very generous,' he said, thinking Tindómion very fair and noble. A cautious little bit of him called a warning, but the impulsive, thoughtless part of him, which was by far the most, gave a little thump of excitement too that these great warriors had spoken so well of him. He remembered that night Tindómion had sung and how he had wished he was in the Wood and could take a cup of wine to him, draw him aside and suggest they might go elsewhere….

He must have been staring because Tindómion shifted and cast him an oblique glance. 'Do you miss the Wood very much?' He smiled then at Legolas' surprised face and looked away. His striking eyes were vague, dreamy in remembrance. 'I remember the Woodelves from the Last Alliance. Dagorlad…I could hardly breathe for watching their headlong charge…' Legolas stiffened expecting some criticism of his people for that was the story told here. 'I could not believe their courage…they had barely any armour and yet they followed Oropher like he was their God more than their King. It was inspiring…and tragic. They opened up the battle for the rest of us…' He let his gaze settle again on Legolas, linger a little. 'You are too young to have been there I think.'

'Yes. I was not born until long after…I think my father had not thought to raise another child but he says my mother was very persistent.' He smiled.

'You must favour her then. I can see he would not have resisted long,' said Tindómion and Legolas blinked. Had that been an invitation? He was about to reply when they were interrupted.

'Legolas!' Amron had spotted him and beckoned him over and many of the gathered soldiers looked up with interest. 'Have my place, Legolas! I have lost more than I can manage,' he declared woefully, but Legolas caught the gleam in his eyes and there was a shuffle. Saeldir shot him a quick, appraising look and also stood.

Legolas turned his head slightly just in time to catch a half smile from Tindómion and he hesitated, wishing to stay with Tindómion but unsure what the other's intentions were, anxious that he himself may have misunderstood.

'Go,' said Tindómion waving his had towards them. He laughed but it was kind. 'They scent fresh meat.' Tindómion continued. 'They will not be put off now.' He looked over at the gathered crowd and lifted his hand in greeting to another warrior that Legolas did not know. The man nodded in response and came towards them and Tindómion, with a quick smile and slight bow to Legolas, went to meet him. It left Legolas standing on his own and feeling rather easily dismissed. Trying hard to stifle his disappointment, he shrugged, and went to stand with Amron.

'Take my place,' Amron insisted again and as Tindómion made no sign of rejoining Legolas, he sat down on the bench that had been pulled up to the card table.

'And I have won enough from you, Amron, so will give my place to others,' said Saeldir quickly, and cast his cards down on the board. Immediately there were other warriors who squeezed in to take their place and shuffled up to make room for each other. Legolas cast a quick glance at the faces of those who had made way and saw that they were the older, wilier men and it was the younger ones who squeezed onto the benches, hoping to take advantage of a stranger, he had no doubt. Saeldir and Amron were watching, sussing out his game, he thought drily. He had no doubt they would rejoin once they had seen him play and had worked out if it was worth their while.

'And you, my lord? Do you join us?' one of the younger men asked Tindómion eagerly.

Tindómion had moved closer it seemed and looked over the heads of the gathered crowds. He shook his head. 'No indeed! I am still recovering my losses from the last game, albeit that was with Amron and Saeldir.' There was a good-humoured laugh and Legolas glanced about at the merry faces and bright eyes.

For a moment, the whining in his ears intensified and then it dropped away. He frowned and shook his head slightly and it seemed to fade again into the background. But it frayed his nerves a little and he let his Song soothe it into silence.

This is no different from home, he told himself firmly. Like joining a new patrol that does not yet know you. He quashed his disappointment with Tindómion and his appetite for wagering sharpened instead. He narrowed his eyes, watching the cards dealt.

Some time later, he had won a little and then lost a bit so that the gold coins he had won were now piled up in the middle of the table, mingling with the stake bet by the young warrior still in the game. Amron dealt another hand and Legolas saw the trump card, The Magus, peeped from between the lesser cards he held. He stilled his face so none of his opponents would see his delight and carefully concealed it between the lesser cards.

Not long after, his long white knife lay beside the pile of coins and the roulette from Gimli. His oak pendant given him by his father was tangled in his fingers as if he was about to throw that in as a last gamble. He had his chin in his hands despondently and was watching carefully as the warriors around him became careless and boastful. It was down to the second to last card and he threw down the lesser in apparent despair, holding onto The Magus and keeping it turned down, but as he glanced up he caught an amused grey gaze and saw that Tindómion was still there after all and watching him.

'Give up, Mirkwood! You have lost!' someone called and Legolas steeled himself, turned smiling ruefully.

'I have only this left, from my father. Is there nothing else I can wager?' he asked. There were a few ribald comments that surprised him since this was Imladris, but he laughed along with them easily and ignored Amron's wide grin, the knowing glances of the more experienced men.

'I will loan you a coin,' called Tindómion, flipping him a gold coin. 'See what you can do with it!'

Legolas flashed him a dazzling smile and caught it. 'All or nothing?' he suggested to the table. A couple of the players slid each other sidelong glances and bowed out but one of the young warriors, Arelas, picked up Legolas' long white knife and looked at it with a proprietorial glee, weighing it in his hand and looking along the blade critically.

'This is not bad workmanship for a silvan,' he said grudgingly and Legolas narrowed his eyes.

Some of the older warriors around him laughed knowingly and called a warning to the warrior but he shrugged arrogantly. Legolas put the mithril chain back over his head, feeling the oak leaf nestle comfortingly again over his heart and threw in the gold coin given him by Tindómion.

'Go on, I will wager all of what I have won this evening,' said Arelas boastfully. Almost immediately the other remaining warriors shook their heads and withdrew or threw down their cards and a hush fell.

Everything Legolas had lay on the table between them. He lifted the edge of The Magus, just turned up the corner slightly, enough to let the warrior opposite see his face fall and believe that there was no luck with him tonight.

Arelas picked up his own card and glanced at it. 'Give me another,' he said irritated.

'You will still need a stake to play another card,' Amron reminded him softly.

Arelas patted his pockets for a moment and looked in surprise at the pile of coins that spilled over on the table between him and Legolas. He chewed his lip for a moment and then unsheathed an elegant knife that was chased with mithril and about which vines twisted and curled. There was a murmur from his friends and one leaned down and whispered something to him but he laughed contemptuously and waved them away. 'Have this if you win. It was my father's. It is worth more than all your stake put together and better crafted than your silvan workmanship, for it was made by the elven smiths of Ost-in-Edhel.'

'And yet you will wager it upon one card?' said Legolas quietly, raising an eyebrow.

The Imladrian drew another card. He glared at it before flipping it over in disgust. Two of coins. He stared at it for a long moment in silence. Around him, a murmur of consternation from his friends and Amron patted his shoulder comfortingly.

'Your luck has run out,' Amron observed cheerily. 'I did warn you,' he added. Legolas grinned and reached out to pull his hoard towards him.

Arelas put his hand over the knife and stopped Legolas. 'Let me see what you have first.'

'That is not in the rules. You yielded,' Amron called. 'If you wish to see, you have to pay. You cannot pay, you cannot demand to see.'

'I do not mind,' said Legolas and turned over The Magus. Arelas spluttered in outrage.

'That was not the card you drew!' he exclaimed. Legolas smiled and reached for the piles of coins, scooping them towards him.

'You were not watching me carefully enough,' he said simply. 'I held onto this card throughout the game and drew you in by seeming to wager all my higher cards earlier in the game so you thought I only had low cards left. It's an old trick. One I am surprised you did not know.' He grinned cheerfully and flipped Tindómion's gold coin back to him. The Imladrian lord caught it with an answering grin.

Legolas flicked up the knife and looked down its blade critically, much as Arelas had looked at Legolas' own moments before. 'This is not bad workmanship I suppose… for a Noldor smith. Not as fine as dwarvish make though.'

There was an intense silence and Legolas saw the warrior go very still, draw inwards. He paused and then shoved the knife back towards Arelas. 'This should never be staked in a mere game though,' he said gently reproving as he would one of his own young warriors in the Wood who knew no better, ignoring his own stake of white knives and his father's oak pendant. Arelas looked shame-faced and took the knife. He glanced at Legolas but he said nothing.

'You should be grateful, Arelas,' reprimanded Amron. 'What would your mother have said should you have lost that knife?'

'Let that teach you to never underestimate your opponent,' Saeldir said with a note of triumph in his voice that surprised Legolas. 'Now,' Saeldir turned to Legolas with a grin, 'Are you man enough to play a real game?'

Legolas did not reply at first but glanced quickly around to see if Tindómion were still there for despite the earlier rebuff, he would rather pursue a different interest. But the bronze-haired warrior had gone.

Legolas looked down at his cards and the pile of coins a little disappointedly. Then he looked up at Saeldir with a sharp smile. 'Am I still fresh meat to you?' he challenged and the older men now shoved the younger ones out of the way and the real game began.

Some hours later, Legolas' little pile of coins stacked up beside him had begun to dwindle a little but he wanted to listen to the talk which had turned to more recent events, so he stayed a little longer.

'So how is the lord Elladan?' asked Amron, looking up at Saeldir.

Saeldir shrugged. 'They are keeping it very close. Only the high lords know and they are not saying.'

'Not even Glorfindel?'

Amron was dealing a new set of cards, and for a moment, the talk ceased and the players looked, calculated, glanced at each other. But behind him, the talk continued. 'How was he injured?' one younger man asked in a low voice, glancing surreptitiously towards the door. Legolas did not know his name.

And then even lower, voices joined in behind and around him. He did not look up in case they recalled a stranger was in their midst and ceased.

'They came upon a band of Orcs I heard. He and the lord Elrohir.'

'Good thing that Elrohir was there. He would never leave Elladan's side. Not even if it meant his own death.'

'Not just Elladan's though,' another voice said quickly, defensively. 'Remember Taelion?' There was a murmur of voices in agreement and admiration. 'At Námo's doorway he was, but Elrohir would not leave him in spite of being heavily beset. He still brought the poor sod home.' There was a murmur of agreement that had Legolas wondering how it was Elrohir had inspired these men and yet had been so unfairly aggressive towards Legolas himself. Even before the Orc he had sensed it. He scanned his cards and saw there were no major cards. He was bound to lose.

'He pulled me out of a skirmish once. I was beset, four Orcs, and I was injured. He should have left me…'

'He would never leave anyone. Not he. Others might.' There was a silence then, slightly awkward and Legolas wondered what else had gone on before to cause such a strain. But it was clear that these men clearly admired Elrohir, loved him even.

'You might die from his ministrations though!' someone laughed and Amron looked up, caught Legolas' eye and grinned.

'Legolas here was in his care for a bit,' he told the crowd. Then he turned back to Legolas and his face was serious. 'But had you not been, I think the lhach-rhaw would have had you.'

There was a murmur of appreciation, both for Legolas for having had and survived the lhach-rhaw, and for Elrohir. It seemed Legolas was not alone in suffering the dreadful poison.

There was a lull whilst the game proceeded and then someone said, 'I heard it was not Orcs but that Elladan was injured in Phellanthir.'

Legolas looked up, searching for the speaker. It was an Elf he had not seen before, clad in the grey of Imladris and with the argent star on the indigo field* that was its lord's emblem. But before any could ask him further, another voice spoke, a rich and lovely voice.

'And where did you hear such gossip?' Tindómion had returned. Legolas' treacherous and easily led heart gave a little thump and his even more easily led groin gave a quite convincing surge of interest. How he hoped the lord had returned for him!

There was an awkward silence and a shuffling. Then the Elf who had spoken said respectfully, 'I am sorry my lord. I must have misheard.'

'Indeed. It was Erestor and Glorfindel, returning from Phellanthir, who happened upon the brothers.' His voice was very calm, very reassuring, and persuasive. Legolas found himself agreeing and nodding along with everyone else as if this announcement must be the truth.

'As you say, my lord. I had heard that too. There is too much gossip from the kitchens I think.'

'Soldiers should pay no heed to gossip,' Tindómion said but without criticism. He said it as a mere statement and the other soldiers around him murmured agreement. 'No harm,' he smiled at the Elf who had gossiped.

'Thank you my lord,' the Elf bowed slightly, a little flushed but his eyes were full of gratitude and respect and Legolas watched how they fell back slightly for Tindómion as he smiled and gave a slight inclination of the head as he left. His eyes rested momentarily on Legolas and then he turned and withdrew.

But Legolas' inattention had cost him dear and Saeldir threw down a card and teeth gleaming, swept the coins from the table and winked irritatingly. 'Looks like you were too easily distracted,' he said and Amron too grinned.

Legolas gave a rueful smile. 'You are old hands, my friends,' he said and pulled back. 'And I am all out.' He rose to his feet, quietly pleased at how easily he had made his escape. There were good-natured cries of protest but he shook his head. 'I do not wish to lose my shirt and I can see how things are going now.' He laughed at Amron's wide smile and swept his remaining coins into his palm, shoved them into the pocket of his tunic and patted them comfortably.

He made his way towards the doorway and found Tindómion lounging by the door as he left, arms folded. 'You have a nice little hoard there,' the lord observed.

Legolas grinned cockily. Tindómion would surely not have returned unless he had an interest, he thought. And that last look was definitely an invitation, he told himself forgetting all his good intentions. 'I would have lost it had I stayed. They were letting me build up a pile and then would have drawn me in. It is an old trick,' he replied and paused for a moment to stand beside Tindómion. Warmth on his arm, in his belly, in his irrepressible groin. He threw caution to the wind and slid an oblique look at the stern, handsome lord and edged a bit closer.

Tindómion looked at him, standing too close to be strictly polite, and then said, 'The Hall of Fire is merry tonight. Bilbo is…'

A little flutter beat in Legolas' chest and he gave a hopeful smile, his eyes on Tindómion's. 'I know. I have been with the Hobbits all afternoon and I fear I have heard the song too many times to give it the appreciation it deserves.' He looked up at the stars which were hard and bright above him. 'I had thought to walk in the gardens.' Then he added, for good effect and to remind his companion of his impending journey, 'I cannot think I will have many such opportunities in the days ahead.' He made sure there was the slightest tinge of regret in his voice and again looked up at the stars for the full effect.

As he wished, there was a silence and then he watched from the corner of his eye Tindómion bow his head slightly and Legolas hoped it was sorrow that he would soon be leaving. What he did not see was the smile smothered quickly and the gleam in the other's eye.

Tindómion said, 'I have some very good wine from Lindon.' He paused, gave Legolas a quick glance and then said, 'If you wish, you could join me? Unless you truly do wish to stare at the stars all night?'

'No. Wine is much better,' he said with rather more enthusiasm than sophistication, and followed Tindómion from the barracks through the stables and into the gardens and terraces of Imladris. But when he stole a look at the Imladrian lord, Tindómion's strange, intense silver-grey eyes met Legolas', confident, inviting. His hair, like burnished bronze, was pulled back into a triple-braid, thick and long but it was indeed the style of a First Age warrior and Legolas wondered at his story.

'I would deem it an honour, my lord,' he answered regaining his dignity, and then added conversationally, because he thought there should be some conversation, 'You spoke of my people's courage in the battle of Dagorlad,' he said. 'Perhaps, if it is not an impertinence to ask, you will tell me how you came to be in the service of Gil-Galad and Lindon, and thence to Imladris.'

There was barely a flinch but it was there nonetheless and Legolas cursed himself inwardly.

'Forgive me. I am careless,' he said quickly, realising that he had trespassed upon something he had not expected. For it was at Gil-Galad's name that his companion had flinched… there was something here that the stories had not told. 'Perhaps you would rather I did not…'

'There is nothing to forgive,' Tindómion interrupted him quickly, but there was a weight of regret in his eyes. 'Indeed, it is a blessing to talk of those days… to remember Gil.'

It was the use of the familiar Gil that made Legolas realise then; there had been love between this great lord and his king. Suddenly his lust seemed cheap and too great an intrusion. Legolas cursed himself.

'Forgive me,' he said and could not help but press his hand against Tindómion's heart as if he could heal the wound he had opened. 'How stupid I am!'

'No…' Tindómion protested and cupped Legolas' hand with his so that Legolas felt Tindómion's heart beat steadily in his chest. 'No. Do not think it is you who hurts me…I have never quite…reconciled to it. Even now, I cannot believe that one so vibrant, so full of power and life could be…How Eru allowed it…'

Words deserted Legolas then and he felt overwhelmed with compassion, with the sorrow in Tindómion's voice, the loneliness, and he leaned closer to the other Elf, wanting to soothe, to give a little comfort.

Tindómion smiled slightly. 'Share a cup of wine with me before you leave Imladris. It will be a kindness to let me tell you of him.'

Legolas glanced up. 'If you will not see it as an intrusion,' he said.

Tindómion's lips parted as if he would speak more but he only said, 'It was long ago and it is only a cup of wine.' But his voice belied the words and Legolas thought his grief for Gil-Galad beyond repair. He wondered if they had been lovers but he could not imagine the High-King of the Noldor so recklessly breaking his own people's laws and once again, he felt a deep pity for the Noldor so hide-bound by these restrictions and prohibitions that the Wood had never felt.

The cold fragrance of mint and camomile lay on the air and Tindómion led Legolas along a wide, paved path to a high terrace above a waterfall, and then wide elegant steps that swept up to the upper floors of the House. A verandah ran along the edge of the House here, so delicate and elegant it seemed impossible for it to hold any weight or to give any substance to the House. The waterfall fell in a long silver stream nearby and the quiet roar of falling water filled the air. Spray misted the verandah in the late night and the stars glittered on a velvet sky.

'These are my rooms,' said Tindómion, indicating a run of long windows that opened onto the verandah on one side and over the gorge of the Bruinen on the other. 'Glorfindel and others of Elrond's captaincy are lodged here also. And his sons when they are here.'

Legolas looked around him in alarm. 'Do you share rooms?' he asked warily, certainly not wishing to run into Elrohir Elrondion, not even if a cup of wine really did only mean a cup of wine.

Tindómion smiled. 'No, of course not. These are mine and next door is Glorfindel. We are old friends.' He turned and leaned on the rail of the verandah and looked out over the peaceful valley. Frost was in the air and the sounds from the Hall of Fire below were still audible, a strain of some lovely melody drifted out over the lawns and a voice sang. Legolas breathed in, sighed. The tinny ringing in his ears had stopped completely he realised, and he felt his body strong and bounding with energy. He stretched enjoyably and turned to Tindómion to find he stood very close to the warrior, close enough to feel his breath, the heat from him. Silver-grey eyes looked at him, but it seemed to Legolas that he might look right through him to his soul.

'I was curious at first,' Tindómion said quietly, his face very close to Legolas'. Legolas stared at the full lips as they moved, rapt, barely listening at first. '…why Mithrandir was so determined it should be you who has this great honour. Why it should be Mirkwood that destroys Ash Nazg.'

Legolas shot him a quick look for he too had wondered why he was chosen above so many other great and powerful warriors in Imladris. There was Glorfindel of course, and Erestor, the Sons of Thunder and of course Tindómion himself to name but a few. And then he realised that Tindómion must have been amongst those who offered their swords. He dipped his head for he was only an archer from the Wood and had done no great deeds. The greatest deed he had done so far had been to garner his courage and go to the Dragon in his lair; indeed he had fired not even one shot. *

But Tindómion put an elegant finger beneath his chin and lifted his head. 'Do not doubt your worth Legolas Thranduillion. You have the Gift of Song. You hear it, do you not?' Legolas raised his eyes to this great lord's with his bronze hair and silver-grey eyes and almost melted. He leaned in a little closer and heard the great breath of the Sea, a flare of wildfire roaring somewhere, an abyss of furious, tumultuous grief and a war-drum pounding like the heartbeat of the greatest warriors riding over the plains to meet headlong some dreadful enemy of the First Age. But oh, that grief! The grief drowned him…He blinked and pulled back a little, knowing he could be submerged. This was not Tindómion's song; he knew… this was something else… someone else… so deeply intertwined, blood calls to blood. ** This he knew. He shook himself a little, pushing away the threads of that haunting Song that pulled at him, drew him in, close…

Tindómion regarded him closely, with understanding. 'You hear it now… And that is why Mithrandir is right. And at last Elrond sees it, and can help put right his crime.' He saw Legolas' confusion and thinned his lips. 'It is Elrond's fault that the Ring still exists. Better he had tipped Isildur into the Fire with the Ring than let him keep it. It was all for nothing.' He turned away bitterly and looked out over the faded lawns to the cold roar of the Bruinen as it plunged through the gorge below. 'All the slaughter, all the blood…your grandfather, your people… my king…it made it all for nothing…And here we are again.'

Legolas chewed his lip; he did not like to think that Elrond was wrong, although he had certainly heard his father curse the Imladrian lord with similar accusations over the years. To utter such words in his own House felt like treason.

Tindómion breathed in and shook his head as if sensing Legolas' discomfort. 'Do not fear. I have said as much to Elrond himself on more than one occasion. But I will tell him it is right that you go. You have a lightness, a sweetness and loyalty that will be stronger against the Ring than any great Power. For Power calls to Power and it seeks weakness in those that want it and do not have it…Boromir is like Isildur, more than Aragorn will ever be. He will be a danger to the Quest….' Tindómion's voice was a little distant, as if lost in thought. 'You will go to Mordor with them I can see. You will not leave them though it brings you great peril.' When Tindómion smiled, his eyes refocused and he looked upon Legolas with respect, admiration. 'That loyalty is deserving of great honour. 

Legolas glanced down at the fiery star emblem on the Imladrian lord's rich tunic and only then did he frown, thinking it looked familiar. But he had never been the most attentive student, preferring always to be amongst the trees, outside, tracking, shooting, hunting - almost anything but spending time in the quiet of his father's study or library. He pressed his lips together annoyed at his own ignorance and only just caught the fleeting, indefinable look in Tindómion's extraordinary eyes.

'Forgive me,' said Legolas quickly for he thought it might be disappointment that he had not recognised the man's lineage. 'I am only an archer from the Woodland Realm.' He smiled ruefully, hopefully. 'I do not recognise your sigil.'

Tindómion raised an amused eyebrow and with an elegant hand traced the emblem on his breast. 'This is the star of Fëanor.' He watched Legolas' face as Legolas frowned first, puzzled at what that might mean that Tindómion wore the star of that accursed House. Slowly then, his lips parted and he looked up at Tindómion, mouth open in wonder and disbelief. Then, leaning in so that Legolas could feel his warm breath on his skin, Tindómion said in a low, teasing voice, 'You do know how perilous we were? How accursed? Do you not fear to stand with the son of Maglor, for that is who I am. Tindómion Istelion Maglorion.'

Legolas stared into the silver-grey eyes that were full of fire that would not be banked. Kinslayer? he thought with an excited frisson that he knew he should not feel. But in truth he had always admired the Fëanorians' stand against Morgoth, their brilliance and daring, their great tragedies of battles, Fingon and Maedhros' friendship. And he did not think Tindómion was a Kinslayer, whatever his kinship with those who were. He took a breath and said, 'Should I fear to stand with you? You seem fair and noble. You have given me no reason to fear you.'

'Then you are not paying attention.' Tindómion bent his head slightly towards Legolas, his mouth close enough to touch. 'Do you not fear damnation? My House has never obeyed anyone's Laws but our own.'

Legolas found himself staring in astonishment and shivered with delightful anticipation. 'The Wood has its own laws,' he said rather too quickly in what he hoped was a sophisticated and seductive voice but thought it sounded too breathy to be anything but youthful lust. And then he said for good measure, 'And none of us obey those either.'

'Lawless and dangerous indeed are the Elves of the Wood,' Tindómion said amused, and his voice was rich and low. His breath shivered over Legolas' neck so he felt himself turn liquid, tremble with excitement. Tindómion tilted his head to look into Legolas's wide eyes. 'But is not your father the King? Do you not obey his laws?'

Oh, he did not want to think about his father right now! All he wanted to do was to swoon into Tindómion's arms and grapple with him. 'We do not really have a King but an Aran.…' He stared into those silver eyes, rapt and breathless and wishing he could just stop talking but his mouth just kept on going. 'Like a chief. Not like the Noldor kings, like …' He stopped himself before he could blurt out the name and found himself silenced far more effectively by Tindómion's mouth pressed on his.

Legolas turned into him, hands on Tindómion's shoulders, slid them down his muscular swordsman's arms and gripped his wrists. They stood for a moment, locked in a rigid embrace. Then suddenly Legolas pulled Tindómion in tight so their bodies pressed together as tightly as their mouths. He pushed his tongue between Tindómion's lips and the Fëanorian opened up to him and sucked Legolas' tongue. He was shoved up against the wall and whilst he fumbled with the buckles of Tindómion's belt, his own tunic buckles came so easily undone under Tindómion's hands as if they had unwrapped themselves from his body and his tunic fell open to his belt. Cold air peaked his nipples and he suddenly became aware of how exposed they were on this high verandah above the House. And next to Glorfindel's rooms. And Elrohir's.

Legolas pulled away for a moment, panting, throbbing with lust and desire. His head felt dizzy. 'Wait…What about Glorfindel?'

Tindómion lifted his head, hot silver eyes wide and raised an eyebrow. 'He will not want to join us,' he said slowly in an amused voice. 'He keeps the Laws with ease.'

Legolas chewed his lip in consternation, embarrassed at being misunderstood, horrified at the idea of being seen by Glorfindel like this and aroused all at the same time. But Tindómion merely laughed at his expression of conflicted lust and pulled Legolas after him towards the door of his rooms, threw it open and dragged Legolas inside. He slammed the door shut with his foot and pressed Legolas back against it.

'Get out of…this,' he said breathlessly, tugging at Legolas' belt and then tunic. The belt clattered to the floor, spilling small knives and darts onto the stone. They both stared for a moment and then looked at each other, and laughed a little.

Legolas shrugged out of his moss suede tunic and threw it from him, standing in only his linen shirt and breeches. Pulling off one boot, he threw it after his tunic and then hopped on that foot to pull off the other boot.

'Come here,' whispered Tindómion, his breath came heavily in short pants and Legolas could feel his hardness beneath the breeches.

He kicked away his boots and fell against Tindómion. His hands scrabbled beneath the shirt, pulled the hem from the waistband and sought warm skin. There was hard muscle, sinew, strength. Legolas breathed in the heady musk and gazed into Tindómion's silver-grey eyes, half closed in lust. His full lips were parted and his warm skin flushed. Legolas thought him beautiful and fascinating. Fëanorian. Maglorion.

He reached up and pulled Tindómion's long hair free of its braids, dragging his fingers through the heavy bronze silk. It fell straight and gleaming around the other's shoulders, made him look strangely vulnerable, younger than his years. Leaning forwards then, he tugged Tindómion's head towards him, pulling him in, crushing their mouths against each other.

Suddenly there was a hammering on the door. 'Istel?'

Unaccountably, Legolas felt his heart leap in his breast. Tindómion lifted his head from Legolas' and looked past him to the door.

'Istellion!' The voice cried again and it was full of distress.

With a brief, concerned glance at Legolas, Tindómion pulled away and strode towards the door, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders and smoothing his long hair back into place. Legolas leaned back against the wall and let his head rest against it. He tried not to let his irritation show but he was full of lust and the voice did not sound like it was going away soon.

'It is Elrohir,' Tindómion called back over his shoulder and Legolas gasped. He could not bear for Elrohir to find him like this, like a wild woodelf who knew no better and cared nothing for the customs of his hosts. He shoved his shirt back into his breeches, fumbling with the ties and then he scooped up his tunic, dragging it over his head. But already the door was opening and he could see Elrohir's silhouette standing in the doorway, his head bowed, leaned against Tindómion's shoulder.

'…cannot bear to see him like this, Istel…'

Legolas could only hear part because his tunic was stuck over his head and he shoved his arms upward, scrambling to find the armholes.

'…I have someone here,' Tindómion was saying in a low voice that Legolas knew he was not expected to hear. 'He will understand. Let me ….'His voice dropped still lower.

'Forgive me, Istel. I did not mean…I do not think I can …He is so still and cold!' It was a suppressed sob and Legolas suddenly felt intensely uncomfortable. He dragged his tunic on and quickly scanned the room for escape.

But it was too late and Tindómion walked into the room, one hand on Elrohir's arm and concern on his lovely face. He jerked his head at Legolas with an apologetic smile just at the moment Elrohir raised his grey eyes and caught sight of Legolas, tunic half undone and barefoot. He stared and his face flushed with anger. He did not speak but Legolas knew it was only Tindómion's presence that restrained him.

Tindómion, standing next to Elrohir, threw his arm around Elrohir's shoulder and inclined his head towards Legolas. Warningly, thought Legolas. Protectively. Tindómion's loyalty was clear, to Elrohir whom he had known forever, not to some brief flirtation that was Legolas. Legolas could not blame him.

At Tindómion's touch however, Elrohir seemed to crumble a little and Legolas looked away, not looking at the devastation in Elrohir's eyes, not wanting to see, to feel. Nor did he want to be simply dismissed.

'I think I had best leave,' he said awkwardly.

Tindómion gave Legolas a quick, rueful smile. 'Yes, probably for the best.…' He trailed off and Legolas was left standing there uncomfortably, feeling that it was he who intruded. He felt a strange and intense prickling of jealousy that surprised him and made him cross.

He thought he should pull on his boots but it would mean hopping around on one foot and then the other, so instead he stood very straight-backed and inclined his head slightly towards the Noldor Elves. Tindómion smiled regretfully but Elrohir was cold. Cold and angry. Legolas felt an answering anger kindle in his heart and his lip curled.

'Elladan is…' Tindómion started to explain to Legolas but Elrohir stopped him.

'Do not speak of this now, Istel. ' Elrohir's voice sounded harsh with pain, half choked and suddenly Legolas was overwhelmed with unexpected compassion. He almost reached out to Elrohir, almost spoke but the emotion was forcing its way from his belly into his chest and throat, so his throat dried and words would not come.

Instead he merely inclined his head once more, grabbed his boots and walked out of the room, through the door, down the wide stone steps that swept out onto a lower terrace, and across a lawn where he hopped about to pull on his boots. He returned to the sanctuary that was his own room and there he found release from his unspent lust with thoughts of burnished bronze hair and silver eyes…but thoughts of Elrohir intruded over and over and in the end it was a blur of bronze and night-silk, of silver and grey and he slept fitfully, tossing and turning restlessly until the grey dawn heralded the bleakest Yule he had ever known.

tbc.

* This is Russandol's emblem for Elrond that she has kindly lent me although I skipped the golden petals simply because it would have been overly detailed for this tiny bit.

* This refers of course to Black Arrow that tells how Thranduil made a pact with Smaug. The tattoos are connected although I haven't written Legolas' part in this fic yet.

**In Spiced Wine's glorious stories, Maglor is alive and Tindómion his son who he knows nothing of. It is of course part of Maglor's song that Legolas hears. Read it and wonder how you could have missed it all these years!

Only one or possibly two more chapters of this.

The story of how Elladan became so gravely ill in Phellanthir will be told in Narmofinion when I finish this.


	30. Vilya

Happy Birthday Encairion.

Beta: The truly wonderful Anarithilien.

Please note the events at Phellanthir will be told in Narmofinion which is the next fic to be written. That will reveal all about the events that led to this point and beyond, the aftermath once the Fellowship has departed. I just think to do that now would be to extend this fic beyond its narrative parameters.

 

WARNING: Explicit slash in this chapter.

 

**Chapter 30: Vilya**

Elrond trod the sweep of stone steps that led to his chambers, his feet heavy and stone-mortal. He looked down at them, too tired to look anywhere else and too heart-sore to try.

He thought about Elladan lying still and silent not far away, and though he no longer fought for his life, he was far from well. There was no more Elrond could do now, nor Elrohir. Elrond knew that he had exhausted both himself and Vilya. He needed rest.

Quietly he opened his door and went into his own cool airy chambers. The long casement windows stood open and the cold night air flooded his rooms, a light breeze lifted the gauzy veiled curtains, so they were more like mist than fabric. Huge mirrors lined the walls and moonlight reflected off the glass and pale marble so that even at night the chambers seemed insubstantial, not an interior at all but instead reflected over and over the mountains, forests and the waterfalls that roared and cascaded all around the House until you could not know what was real and what imagined.

It had been a feat to build. Even Celebrimbor had said it would be difficult, but he never said impossible. He never said that.

Elrond stared out across the frosted lawns, glittering under the hard moonlight. Below him a figure stood. It looked strange, its shape unnatural. Head too thick and arms too short. Until he realised it was an Elf struggling to pull on his tunic. Suddenly a pale head popped out. The Elf stooped and then hopped on one foot for a moment too and Elrond realised he was pulling on his boots. A glint of moonlight on pale hair was enough then to identify the Elf, for it was not Glorfindel. It was Legolas Thranduillion.

He watched for a moment, dully thinking of that first time he had seen Legolas. The young Elf was similarly half-dressed then. He wondered what had happened this time.

Legolas wobbled on one foot and almost fell over and then lifted the other foot to pull on his other boot. Elrond studied the Elf; Legolas now stood properly clothed and still in the moonlight as if considering what next to do. He could not have been drenched as he had been the last time, Elrond thought absently, for his clothes were obviously dry else he would not be putting them on. Slowly it dawned upon him; Legolas must have had a tryst, perhaps had been surprised and fled. Elrond smiled to himself and wondered who the maid was. Perhaps her parents had called her in before it had gone too far, or she had another suitor? He hoped Legolas was not dallying with some girl’s affection for he saw the lightness and ease of the Woodelves and Legolas was certainly not giving his heart away here in Imladris, that much was clear. Should he wish, Elrond could have looked into the hearts of all his folk, but he was not Galadriel.

Legolas slowly turned and made his way across the silvered lawns and Elrond felt a dreadful sadness in his heart; in less than a week, he thought, he would be sending this youngest son of Thranduil on a journey that could well take him to Mordor, or into battle at the least. Perhaps even the very lands where his grandfather and so many Woodelves had lost their lives for he knew that despite the fact that no oath lay upon him, Legolas would not turn towards Mirkwood once they had crossed the Mountains. None of them would.

He turned away and sank into a plush, comfortable chair, too tired to undress and climb into his own bed, cold, and empty. It had always felt too small with Celebrián in it, he thought. And then it had filled up with children who wanted the comfort of each other; climbing in with cold feet to place lovingly on their parents’ warm bodies…He shoved that image away. It was too much and he was not strong enough to let the memories come, not with Elladan lying still unconscious so close by.

Vilya was warm on his hand; she caressed him and he filled his lungs with clean air so he could slow his thoughts, cool his blood, rest. The long casement windows let in the cold mountain air. It smelt of snow and pine. Below, the Bruinen roared and gushed over rocks, ice-cold, melt-water. He merely rested his head against the back of the chair and let the breath leave him for a moment. He emptied himself and though she too was drained, he let Vilya sing…

One strain at first, like ice forming. Thin, metallic chimes, and then the upward soar of Song and he felt it sweep him upwards in a building crescendo so he no longer felt entirely alone. He wondered where Maglor was and wished he was here, safe in Imladris. He often thought of those lost ones; his beloved foster fathers….One lost somewhere and the other lost in another-where…It was because of them, and because of Elros that he fostered the Heirs of Isildur, over and over. Raised them. And lost them too…

_You have lost everyone. Everything._

Ah. Ash Nazg again. Everyone  was stretched by the constant nagging of the Ring; all felt it, he knew. There was discord in Imladris and he was hard put to hold together the generosity and tolerance of the House. Ash Nazg dug its subtle, insidious  fingers between the cracks, found weakness and worked upon them. Indeed he felt it too much. It sought Vilya always, knowing her Power, wanting it, seeking her. Even now, Elrond felt it winding its tendril about Vilya’s purity, shadowing her clarity and light.

He sent a short prayer to Elbereth, for her strength, her guidance for surely she had the greatest love for Middle Earth and still mourned its loss? It was why Ólorin had been sent, and Glorfindel, was it not? They had not been forgotten, not abandoned.

_Are your prayers always answered thus? With emptiness and silence?_

He ignored the voice and pushed himself to his feet, took one long stride to the table where a tall jug of cold wine stood, and a bowl of ripe fruit from the South. He poured wine into his glass, and stood for a moment. Really he should disrobe and go to bed but he was in that state beyond exhaustion and there was too much going on in his head for sleep.

_The Valar have given Middle Earth to me._

He stood for a moment and drank slowly, let the acid and fruitiness soak his mouth, and watched the snow clouds gather over the mountain tops. Deliberately ignoring Ash Nazg.

_Curunir has already turned._

He did not respond, but in his heart he knew now that was true. Saruman’s betrayal was bitter. How could they have not known? How could they have let him betray them? But it hurt more deeply than that, for Elrond had trusted him, had liked him. They had a shared interest in lore, in healing… Saruman had taught him much, his intellect different from the fiery integrity and courage of Mithrandir. Elrond had corresponded, had spent time with Saruman, learning and teaching him alike.

_And are you so sure of the Shipwright? Are you so sure of Her?_ Another cold laugh, a sneer. _Did you think I did not know where are the Three?_

He let Vilya close around him, a silver-blue veil over his thoughts, careful to shut _Him_ out before the truth about the keepers of the Rings was revealed*. He turned back to look at the garden. The stars were bright, white gemstones but dimmed in the stronger light of the Moon which scryed a silver path towards dawn. Legolas had gone and left only a set of light prints across the frosted grass to show where he had ever been.

_How long before Ólorin succumbs?_

_Mithrandir? Ólorin? He will never succumb._ Elrond guarded his thoughts, his surprise. _His great work is to defeat you. And he will._

_He was always mine._

Elrond did not respond to that. Mithrandir was enigmatic, disliked being questioned and sometimes his motives were unclear. But in this, his opposition to Sauron was beyond doubt.

_You know there is danger…Shadow and Flame…We have both seen it…._

It was goading him, he knew and again, he pulled the veils of Vilya about him, shrouding his thoughts from the One Ring. Looking upwards he watched the Mariner sail the great sea of Night and thought, as he had many many times, how silly that anyone would think that truly his father, Eärendil. Elrond had been taught by Maedhros himself, perhaps one of the most learned Elves either here or Aman, and he knew the stars were not beings, knew the firmament was not finite. Although the star might as well be the Silmaril for all the good that did anyone.

A little wine had spilled onto his robe he noticed but he did not care much. He gulped the wine, feeling the warmth sink into his throat, his chest, his belly, and refilled his glass, took it back to the chair and sank down into it.

Celebrimbor had understood, he thought. His subtlety and secret craft had been a little like Elrond’s own quest for knowledge, but it was healing that was the subject of Elrond’s quest, not curvë for itself. Theirs had been an easy, interested friendship of sorts, for he did not harass Celebrimbor for secrets, not like Galadriel.

The Master of Imladris let his fingers stroke the blue stone that was part of Vilya’s secret mechanism. Vilya was not like Nenya, a more cunning mechanism that unlocked Power. But still the words of Ash Nazg about Galadriel circled him; close, too close to the truth. Elrond was not certain of Galadriel. He knew her ambition. Nenya was not as Vilya, did not wish to heal as Vilya did. Nenya wanted Power, knowledge. Nenya wanted curvë, to discover, to invent, to innovate…and for Elrond, that did not always mean progress.

He sipped the wine and thought about his illustrious, courageous, terrifying mother-in-law. She was dangerous, he had admitted as much to Elrohir when they had both had a moment between the terrifying episodes with Elladan. In a sort of unannounced truce between him and his son, they had talked of the Ring, of the Quest, of Galadriel’s attempt to lure Elrohir to her cause… _Her_ cause.

Elrond let the empty glass dangle between his fingers for a moment. Elrohir had agreed with him that the Ring would tempt her, but would it succeed in seducing her where so many others had failed?

Through the window, he could see the Misty Mountains where they marched away south. The Mariner arced above him.

He let his head sink into the back of the chair, wondering what Celebrimbor’s true purpose had been in making these three Great Rings of Power… there was some great secret that he did not understand even yet about Vilya… something that trembled beneath the surface when the Three came together and the air was so charged that sometimes he thought the Rings had a purpose all their own and separate to anything the wielders might intend.

He thought that perhaps Annatar, Sauron, had known or at least guessed at their true purpose.

They had arrived too late at Ost-in-Edhel and already the city was razed. Completely. Only broken stones and ruined walls where there had once been a busy and prosperous city. No one escaped who had not already fled. Every single soul who had been connected in some way with the making of the Rings had been slain or taken even though the prize had already vanished for Erestor had brought the Rings to Elrond in secret, at Celebrimbor’s command. And though Imladris’ army had ridden like the wind, it was too late. They had all known that Celebrimbor was as good as dead.

The wine was sharp on his tongue now, his mouth had grown used to the sweetness and no longer tasted it. But he drank anyway, feeling the burn of it in his throat. He saw in his mind’s eye the scarred and pitted ruins of Ost-in-Edhel,, the gaping wounds that afflicted the land from wars and desolation. Beneath the sea was fair Beleriand, and beyond the Hithaeglir, Rhovanion, the Wilds, and far countries that had never known the Eldar…How could he heal the great wounds of Middle Earth? How could he, alone with Vilya, reach beyond the known West to those hinter tribes of Khand and Harad and even further?

_Perhaps not alone…_

Narya will help, he thought….

_But that will not be enough and if Mairon is defeated, then Ólorin will return with Narya…_

He found himself thinking: _the Rings do not belong in Aman_.

He could almost hear Celebrimbor’s voice, defiant, angry that even the suggestion that his Rings, his scrying devices, his fabulous technology should be taken to Aman. ‘ _It belongs here! Celebrimbor had cried, throwing out one hand angrily in a gesture so like Maedhros that Elrond’s breath caught. ‘The Valar would stop me from using it, would try to control it - like they did Fëanor’s.’_

_Was that true?_ he wondered.

A sliver of doubt eased its way across his mind.

Another gulp of wine. Ah, he was tired. His mind bled dreams, from the past that he did not want now… Elros. Their last meeting. Elros an old Man, bent over, hair white and skin creased. It had shocked Elrond beyond words. But Elros had smiled and lifted a shaky hand to his brother’s smooth cheek in wonder.

He found himself thinking again of those he loved and had gone beyond him… For once he let himself remember them all, and he wished, oh how he wished he could bring them all home, and he could look his fill upon those he had loved, that he could stretch his hand across the Sea and touch his sweet Celebrián, and heal her of all her hurts, steer the grey ship safely home and hold her once again; that he could unlock the Door of Night and bring Maedhros, shining, gasping, out into the light once more…He took a gulp of wine. Where were they now, those glorious sons of Fëanor? Had Maedhros stopped falling? Had he found Eru? And Maglor…was he even on these shores or had he wandered so far now that he was forever lost? And more than anything, he wished he could turn back Time itself and forbid Arwen her journey to Lorien that had brought Aragorn to her. If only there were a way to stop her from going, to change everything so her heart was not given to Aragorn. Perhaps if he died?

He stopped, shocked at himself, though in truth it was not the first time he had thought such things.

And suddenly in that moment, a surge of Power wrestled Vilya from him and he was caught in the upsurge of Air seething and swelling around him. Great chords blasted in his ears for the Song was loud, discordant. It crashed over him. Vilya’s Power shot above him like lightning bolts, huge, spiraling, spinning upwards in a silver-blue tornado of Air as she struggled with a tremendous Power. Ash Nazg, sensing Vilya’s exhaustion, had used her own Power as a conduit, and attacked her.

A mighty wind rushed around the room, sweeping objects from tables. The glass jug smashed to the floor beside him and his half empty glass hurtled into a mirror and cracked loudly over the surface. Elrond struggled upright and lifted his arms, pouring out his own incipient Power to help Vilya wrestle the malignant Ash Nazg, but it writhed and poured around her, spinning its dark coils tighter and tighter about Vilya so she became one sharp blue spike of Power spiraling, shooting upwards. Elrond gathered himself, his hands filled with light and then he pulled back and shot Power like lightning into the spiral. The wind coiled upwards, tugging at him, his hair streamed in its wake, his feet felt they were no longer anchored to the earth and a terrible voice filled the air…

_Ash nazg durbatulûk,_

An Eye opened, a terrible lidless Eye surrounded by flame. It searched, always searching though it could not yet penetrate Imladris for Vilya still surrounded it, obscured it from His view. But Ash Nazg would open a channel if it could and bring the Eye to penetrate Imladris. Already he felt it burn…His skin was on fire, flames licked along his hands, tore into him like knives but he did not let go of Vilya.

Vilya’s silver-blue light, her spiralling energy fought against the coiling dark. Elrond did not waste himself in word-battle with the great Enemy, but poured himself instead into Vilya for there were thin streaks of emptiness in the silver-blue light.

_Ash nazg gimbatul,_

Like black cinders, the words flew around him, malevolence so great they seemed to prick the air, seep like ink into his lungs…

A _sh nazg thrakatulûk_

_Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

‘Eru help me!’ Elrond cried, knowing Ash Nazg was winning, that it would take Vilya’s Power to itself and Elrond with it, would crack open Imladris to let Sauron in, not just the Eye for he already knew where the Ring was, but his armies, the Nazgûl. Vilya shuddered with the strain, and he felt the crackling of Power, splintering, shattering.

He did not hear the door crash open. He was barely aware of the spurt of crimson Power that streaked to Vilya’s aid until he heard Mithrandir, Ólorin speak, felt Narya’s heat like fire. Silver-blue and red twirled, curled, lit, ignited together and suddenly the Eye was gone, the flames that scalded him, burned him, were gone. Vilya convulsed, silver-blue light bled into the air. And suddenly it was quiet….

Elrond fell shaking to the floor, on his knees, head bowed and barely felt hands on him, lifting him, pressing him down into the chair. He retched and the hands that held him were agony on his burned skin. Vilya was curled around him, pulsating, trembling and he drew her close, each nursing the other.

A glass was pressed into his burned hand, words murmured in concern. At first he thought it was Elros and he cried out, lifted his other hand to that beloved, long-lost face, caressed the cheek so gently, disbelieving and the lips moved, face frowned in concern. Something was held to his dry lips and he drank, automatically registering athelas and something more potent… _ayudenya_ perhaps? Two drops in water?… Slowly, his hands realised they were not burned and Aragorn’s face was before him, concern in those grey eyes. Not Elros then, he thought anguished; his foster-son, his treacherous foster-son whom he had nurtured and who had come to take away his daughter to death, where he would not meet her again until the Ending of the World…

Vilya sighed and there was the breath of the world. Light and air again filled him Elrond blinked. Aragorn. His _beloved_ foster-son. Tears filled his eyes and he stroked the stubbly cheek again, but this time knowing it was not Elros but Aragorn. He smiled.

‘I am sorry, father. I wish…’ Such anguish too in Aragorn’s voice.

‘I know.’ It was all he could say.

He felt again the comfort of Vilya, and where Narya touched Vilya too. He struggled upright and saw that the glorious light that was Ólorin had dimmed and that it was only Mithrandir who stood staring out of the long, open windows southwards, where the Misty Mountains spread, the spine of Middle Earth, tailing far, far into the distance.

‘I do not know what just happened.’ The Wizard’s voice was sober. ‘But without shadow of doubt, _He_ is coming,’ he said emphatically. ‘And swiftly.’

Elrond let his gaze drift, follow the line of cold mountains that closed about the Valley. ‘You must go soon before it is too late. I will send Glorfindel and Tindómion west along the Old Road. Sauron will believe they are taking the One to the Havens. His spies and the Nazgûl will follow.’

Mithrandir nodded and glanced at Aragorn. ‘We must ready the Fellowship. We leave under cover of dusk and make for the Redhorn Pass. It is still unguarded if what Elrohir says is true. Sauron does not expect us to bring the Ring _to_ him so we go while we still have the advantage.’

‘Send Elrohir with Glorfindel,’ said Aragorn suddenly. ‘Give him something or he will go mad with grief. You have seen him?’

Elrond hesitated; Aragorn was right, although sending his son into the jaws of the Nazgûl was the hardest order to give. Three of his captains against the Nine? One small company of warriors against the army of goblins and Orcs that would descend upon them as they fled across Eregion? He had not forgotten the darkness he had seen in Elrohir and he felt a shiver crawl across his neck at the thought of Elrohir at the mercy of the Nazgûl, and without Elladan’s guiding light to bring him home.

He felt Mithrandir’s hand on his shoulder, Narya suffused the air with warmth and there was, as there always was with Ólorin, the scent of frost and a slight breath of the Sea. ‘Such a death I do not foresee for him,’ Mithrandir said comfortingly for the connection between Vilya and Narya was still strong. ‘He has much to accomplish yet.’

 

0o0o

 

Legolas had slept deeply until now and a sudden jangling of nerves like a discord in the Song brought him awake but still half dreaming. He opened his eyes slowly and saw lightning flashes in the sky above Imladris and the House seemed to shake. A storm must have suddenly swept down from the Mountains and blasted across the Valley.

At first he could not think where he was. . And then remembered he was in Imladris with its marble floors and carved limestone, waterfalls, where even in the Winter there was still the lingering faint scent of roses and lavender like some lovely woman had passed by and he not seen her. So deeply had he slept he was not even sure he was yet awake for he had been dreaming of the Wood.

…. _of the time of the Dragon, when still Smaug slept and dreamed of gold and the Arkenstone was hidden in the heart of the fabulous trove. Legolas had not dreamed of Smaug, but of Lathron; The Listener had stepped out of the shadows of his dreams, moved aside the veils and stooped to kiss Legolas on the mouth so he thought he had awoken and found himself in that part of the Wood where Lathron dwelt, where green light filled the glade._

_Lathron took his hand and led him deeper still until the light was dim and dark and the silence thick, and there Lathron laid him down._

_There was a fire and he stared into the shifting, leaping flames and thought of Dragons, liquid molten fire captured and given life. He had not been able to forget Smaug’s Song until Lathron sang another Song and there was the pain, the tender prick of the quiss as Lathron slowly drew the blood of his yarë-cárme, pricked out in coloured inks the path of his pain. He remembered the sharpness of its making on his skin, that dulled to an ache… Lathron had breathed with him; breathe through the pain, he had murmured. It is only pain and will pass._

And it had.

But it took him to another place, the place between, into the twilight world before Time, before the Counting.

He blinked slowly, still half asleep and thinking that he had forgotten the dream that had come to him whilst lost in the haze of ecstasy and pain that the Ancient Art, the yára-carmë, brought. It had a hallucinogenic quality of sharp clarity and surreal images and now it came back to him…

_…He was somewhere else, running this time along the sand beside a silver sea, the sand hard beneath his feet. He was running, and there was someone ahead… someone without whom he could not live, and he knew he might lose them until the Ending of the World… He ran harder, looking ahead, the wind streaming through his long hair and his eyes wide and searching, his mouth open to breathe for his lungs pumped hard…And then he saw a tall warrior, standing thigh deep in the water which lapped at him gently, and he stared unseeing into the distance, at something that Legolas could not see. The warrior’s black hair was unbound, loose and it fell straight down his back, so long that it floated on the mercurial water. He turned slightly at the sound of Legolas’ voice and their eyes met like lightning; Legolas was pierced by the hurt, proud gaze that wanted so badly to do right and believed that he could not. Legolas reached out with a terrified cry but it was too far and too late and the warrior walked forwards, deeper into the water and his long hair floated and the warrior closed his eyes and the water closed over him…_

_‘_ No! No!’

He awoke sweating and with the sheet wrapped around him, still in dreams and he sat upright and stared at the dim, waning Moon; a sliver in the dark sky…Still half-dreaming, he thought it was Elrohir whom he had seen on the dark beach under the moon, it was he who had dipped beneath the water…

Legolas rose to his feet, felt his limbs trembling as if he had run a long way, sweat shone on his skin. He caught an image of his reflection in the silver mirror and for a moment thought he still dreamed for the ethereal and lovely face that looked back at him, with startled eyes huge and wondering, and the full lips parted in a gasp for he did not know himself. The dragon etched onto his skin was, he was certain, moving, undulating in the dim light. It looked at him knowingly and curled over his arm, his bicep and slid down his shoulder, coiled around his thigh… A breeze lifted the gauzy veils that were pulled across the long open window, lifted the ends of his unbound hair. He opened the silvery wood door and stepped out onto the verandah. Half asleep still and dreaming he looked over the Bruinen. The stars were hard and bright as always in the Valley and a skein of mist lay over the lawns.

When he turned he saw a figure standing on the verandah a little way along from his own door. The man inclined his head towards Legolas. Moonlight gilded the bronze hair and reflected in his strange grey eyes, so pale they were almost silver. It was Tindómion and his gaze was fixed upon Legolas appreciatively. Legolas stood for a moment and then shaking himself free of the cobwebs of his troubled dreams, he smiled, and let his long hair slide over his shoulder in invitation.

They did not speak but stepped towards each other, and unsure if this was still a dream, Legolas held out his hand, took Tindómion’s in his and led him within, into his chamber. This time it was not the desperate and frenzied fumbling of earlier. There was almost a sense of sadness beneath the physical yearning.

‘I leave in the morning for Mithlond,’ Tindómion said as he shrugged out of his silk robe and left it curled on the floor like some sleeping beast. Only then did Legolas realise Tindómion looked as if he had dressed hurriedly, as if he had been summoned in haste.

Legolas watched from the bed, he rested on his elbow, leaned his cheek in his hand and regarded the Fëanorian intently. ‘Surely you do not sail?’ he exclaimed and could not help the disappointment for Tindómion was powerful, strong and his beautiful strong face was turned away just then so he could see the strong profile, the full lips and his eyes looked downwards at the ties of his shirt.

He glanced up briefly at Legolas, a smile tugged lightly at his mouth. ‘You think me so fickle that I would leave these shores just as Sauron grows strong?’ He smiled teasingly and pulled his shirt over his head, balled it up and threw it in a corner as if he had no further use of it. He faced Legolas who watched him approach. So graceful and sensuous, Legolas thought, he almost prowled. The Fëanorian stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down . ‘Glorfindel goes with me, and Elrohir. We do not sail. We will be a decoy,’ he said. ‘We ride West to draw the Eye of the Enemy. You will leave at dusk so that you may slip away unnoticed and unseen.’

Legolas sat up abruptly. ‘We leave at dusk? That is a strange time for a journey to begin,’ he mused. ‘But in all our meetings, Mithrandir has said over and over that secrecy is our best weapon.’

‘This time tomorrow neither of us will be in Imladris,’ Tindómion said softly. He looked upon Legolas tenderly and then said, ‘You will be on your way south along the Hithaeglir and I will be riding along the Greenway with hopes to meet the Nazgûl once more on Amon Sul.’

Legolas almost gasped then. ‘Is that not truly dangerous?’

Tindómion laughed softly and leaned down to stroke a tendril of hair back from Legolas’ face. ‘Says the Elf who would go to Mordor with but eight companions and the One Ring.’ His eyes were soft and he pressed his mouth against Legolas’. ‘You are very fair and so brave it takes my breath away.’ Tindómion’s eyes travelled down Legolas’ body and back up to his face appreciatively. He touched very lightly, the faint scar on Legolas’ chest and frowned.

Legolas cringed inwardly for this was self-inflicted whilst deep in the throes of the poison. It had been an expression of futility and despair. Unworthy. He shook his head slightly; the tinny ringing was back in his ears, a distant nagging discord. How could they send him with the Ring when he was so weak? ‘I am the least of my kin!’ he said, looking away. ‘I have stumbled and blundered my way into this and I cannot believe that Elrond chose me. I have done nothing to deserve it.’ He glared down at his hands as if somehow they were to blame for his gaucheness and clumsiness since coming here so he did not see the surprise and tenderness on Tindómion’s face.

‘The least of your kin? Then they must be the Valar!’ Tindómion laughed gently and lay on the bed beside Legolas, propped himself up on his elbow and stroked Legolas’ thigh.

‘My brothers are so much more than I,’ Legolas said regretfully. ‘Laersul is the leader of our warriors. He keeps the Shadow at bay in the Wood, and Thalos can talk the silk from a spider,’ he said. ‘I do not know why my father chose to send me,’ he added miserably and then felt worse because he thought he was whining. It was something Thranduil would never tolerate and he hated it himself.

Tindómion laughed and shifted closer to Legolas so his breath was warm on Legolas’ skin. ‘And their youngest brother crossed the Hithaeglir on his own and braved the Nazgûl to boot? He is one of the Nine Walkers who will take the One Ring to Mordor and destroy Sauron.’ Tindómion smiled and wrapped his hand in Legolas’ long hair. ‘I think your brothers will be proud of you and I know your father will be.’

Legolas opened his mouth to protest that he had hidden trembling in the heather when the Nazgûl passed him by in the mountains but Tindómion stilled his protests with a kiss that burned hotly through his blood and loins.

‘Did you not join Imladris in its defence of Middle Earth,’ Tindómion murmured against Legolas ‘ cheek and Legolas felt his belly quicken in anticipation. ‘You fought alongside Glorfindel and the Sons of Thunder against the gathering army of Orcs.’ He kissed Legolas again and this time pressed his strong powerful body against the whole length of Legolas’. Legolas gasped and felt lust rush and pool in his loins. He let his head fall back against the pillow and sighed.

‘Did you not slay an Orc that was Elrohir’s trophy? That was a feat to brave Elrohir’s wrath however righteous the torment. Did you not risk yourself to bring Rhawion out of Phellanthir? They say you are like our Sons of Thunder, that you will not leave a comrade behind. They say you are fair and brave and that the Woodelves are wild and free…’

Tindómion pushed at the waistband of his own breeches so they slid over his lean hips and the Imladrian paused for a moment teasingly until Legolas bit his lip and looked into the grey eyes that watched him, licked his lips almost nervously for this was no quick tumble; this was a great lord of Imladris, lover of the High King Gil-Galad, the son of Maglor.

Tindómion gently reached up and cupped Legolas’ cheek. ‘Why do you doubt yourself? Your worth? I have told you what is said about you.’

Legolas looked away; he knew what else they must say about this wild Woodelf in their midst, so unwise, untutored and unlettered. He was the Son of Thranduil and must seem like a rustic peasant.

‘This is the Ring that tells you that you are unworthy,’ his companion said suddenly. He put his hand beneath Legolas’ chin and brought his head up so he had to look into Tindómion’s silver- grey eyes. ‘It whispers to you of your unworthiness, does it not? You have felt it? Heard it?’

Legolas began to shake his head in denial, why would the Ring even bother with him? There was nothing it could gain from him and then stopped…it was true that he never felt these doubts when he was in the Wild. And he never questioned himself in the Wood in spite of difficult missions and having been sent to any number of diplomatic occasions… True he was not allowed to speak since that unfortunate incident at Esgaroth. And it was true that his father often said he would trust his horse at a council before he would trust Legolas, but he said it in affection and teasing, and he had still sent Legolas here to give the news of Smeagol’s escape…

‘Perhaps there is some truth in what you say,’ he admitted wonderingly. ‘But how could a mere ring do that?’

‘It is no mere ring,’ Tindómion replied soberly and he sat up, all playfulness gone and Legolas saw the warrior, the counselor, the wisdom that came from his long life. He felt suddenly in the presence of one who was truly great, as Glorfindel or Elrond.

‘It was made with the curvë of my kin,’ Tindómion said seriously, loosening the thick braid of his hair and carding it loose so it lay across his shoulders. Legolas tried to concentrate on what Tindómion said rather than what he did. ‘Celebrimbor knew how to unlock the Power in particular metals and gems. He learned it from his father who learned it from Fëanor himself but Celebrimbor perfected it.’ Tindómion sighed. ‘His knowledge went beyond anything the world has ever seen… But he would not listen to those of us who warned him against Annatar. And so he was drawn into the making of the Rings, and that is why Sauron destroyed Ost-in-Edhel so completely.’

Legolas wanted to ask more for he knew little of those times or the story of Eregion, but Tindómion kissed him before he could speak and pulled his hands through Legolas’ own hair, tugged gently so he felt a thrilling burn in the underside of his balls that had him forgetting what he was going to ask and instead wanting Tindómion pressed against him.

‘I seem to have rather more clothes on than you,’ Tindómion observed smiling, and he slid completely out of his breeches now and dropped them on the floor beside the bed and looked at Legolas. His chest was broader than Legolas’, and hard and smooth. His nipples were pale and erect and Legolas wanted nothing so much as to lick and suck on them and his cock bulged and bobbed happily at the thought so he slid to the floor on his knees and leaned his elbows on the Fëanorian’s thighs, and let his hand drift over the flat belly, the hard chest and stroke those nipples gently.

Then he reached to thread his fingers through the heavy bronze hair, lifted it in his hand. ‘No one in the Wood has hair of such a colour. Is it common amongst the Noldor?’ he asked.

‘No. Indeed I have not heard that anyone beyond my kin have had hair this colour,’ Tindómion said, ‘but that is not necessarily seen as a good thing.’ He laughed breathlessly and caught Legolas’ hand. He kissed Legolas hard, pushing his tongue firmly against the full lips and into his mouth. Legolas felt the surge of lust spike as Tindómion sucked on his tongue and he thrust it in further aggressively and pulled Legolas onto the bed, shoved him down and straddled his thighs.

‘I think you talk too much,’ he said in a mock growl and pinched Legolas’s nipples hard so he yelped slightly and grabbed at Tindómion’s thighs. Tindómion lowered his head then to Legolas’s chest and sucked at one nipple, letting his hand stroke firmly one muscular thigh until he brushed the hard cock. Legolas gasped, and saw that Tindómion smiled to himself with one nipple caught lightly between his teeth and then he slid his whole body down so he lay pressed against Legolas and gave one long lick from his chest to his mouth and kissed him hard and passionately until Legolas was lost in desire, his eyes half-closed. 

Tindómion leaned in and kissed Legolas again, but much more softly than he had before. ‘I do not think we will see each other again this side of the war,’ he said regretfully ‘Unless you come to bid me farewell when I leave.’

Legolas’ heart suddenly thumped. ‘Of course.’

‘Ah, you are beautiful and brave. I want to remember you like _this_.’ He grasped Legolas’ cock firmly and tugged on it so Legolas sank back into the bed and lost himself in pleasure. Tindómion was skilled and demanding, a warrior used to giving and taking in the lust-filled aftermath of battle and it was passionate and hard and satisfying. Deeply so.

Legolas arched his back as a hot mouth closed over him and sucked hard, found his hands fisted in the sheets and his eyes closed, knew his lips parted in a gasp. Long hair pooled on his belly, bronze silk, stroked his skin as Tindómion moved his head and it did not take long before he was pulling Tindómion up to kiss him deeply. Legolas clasped the other Elf tightly, wrapping his legs around the hard muscular body, pulling him in so that Tindómion plunged deeply into him. The brief burn of pain turned to a liquid pooling of ecstasy; Legolas’ nerves were on fire and he slid into sensation and pleasure and forgot all else. His skin was aflame with desire, his balls  pulsating, throbbing, churning. His muscles clenched and he went rigid as his cock exploded in hot liquid.

 

0o0o

 

It was some hours later when Legolas felt Tindómion pull away from where they lay entangled and sated. He stretched languorously and felt his limbs soft and replete. He opened his eyes sleepily and watched as Tindómion slowly, quietly pushed himself up and swung his legs to the side so he sat on the edge of the bed, carding his long hair through his fingers and then quickly twisted it into his customary braid. Legolas watched for a moment for the Fëanorian thought him still asleep.

Tindómion’s hair was red in the lamplight and it seemed to catch fire. His strong and lovely face was half turned in profile and Legolas thought how fair must have been the sons of Fëanor to have produced such offspring. How strong the bones and blood.

Legolas shoved one arm beneath his head so he could watch and shifted slightly for the sheets were pulled tightly around his hips. Turning his head, Tindómion smiled. ‘I was hoping not to wake you, but I should have known better for a warrior of the Woodland Realm.’

Legolas reached out to touch the marks of passion left on his skin. ‘I was rough with you,’ he said smiling and Tindómion laughed softly and tapped his finger on similar marks on Legolas’s shoulder and belly and thigh.

‘Then was I too much for you?’

‘Never.’ Legolas replied, gazing at his hair, lost in the bronze sheen, the weight of it and thickness a memory now.

‘Will you come to bid us farewell when we leave?’ he asked Legolas. ‘For the Havens,’ he reminded Legolas gently.

‘How could I not?’ Legolas put his other hand behind his head so he was propped up now and could watch Tindómion properly as he stood. Tindómion was muscular and athletic. It was only then that Legolas remembered his vow to himself that he would observe the harsh and restrictive laws of Imladris and not pursue either Tindómion or Elemé. He smiled unrepentantly. He had meant it at the time, he admitted to himself, but he had never had much will power. Laersul had said that more often than he could remember and there had been enough times that you would think he would learn. But Tindómion was glorious, and Legolas had a tale to take back to the Wood for Tindómion could rival even Glorfindel for beauty, courage and lineage.

‘Will it not scandalise Imladris that one of its glorious captains has been spending the night with me?’ he asked mischievously.

Tindómion threw him a look. ‘There will be no gossip or scandal,’ he said seriously. ‘I am discrete for Elrond’s sake and because I care about Imladris.’ He looked at Legolas, held him in that silver gaze and added, ‘And you must be too. But it is not the scandal it used to be in Gil’s court. ‘

Then he leaned down to scoop up his shirt and tugged it over his head, Legolas did not miss the fleeting look of intense pain on Tindómion’s face.  He hesitated a little, unsure whether he was deemed close enough to pry without driving Tindómion away. ‘You were close?’ he asked softly.

Tindómion paused, said nothing, but looked down focusing instead on the button of his loose linen shirt. ‘We were,’ he said at last and although it was brief, it was not terse. He looked down at Legolas and smiled. ‘I wish I had time to tell you of him,’ he said regretfully.

‘Perhaps when I come back?’ Legolas said with a bright smile but at that, Tindómion looked at him and suddenly knelt on the bed and kissed Legolas again. He smelled himself on Tindómion’s mouth and it made his cock give another hopeful little surge and he wound his arms around the Fëanorian’s neck. ‘Why don’t you stay a little longer? The night is barely passed. We have time, surely?’

At that Tindómion laughed. ‘You are incorrigible!’ he declared and stood up.

‘What will I do until we leave? It seems interminable!’ Legolas said and crossed his arms over his chest. He realised he was more than a little bored with all this waiting.

‘I have much to do before I leave. We must make sure we draw the enemy’s spies towards us and away from you.’ He paused. ‘I wish I had all day with you…. I will think of you often.’

‘Then when I return I will hold you to that. And you can spend all day with me helping me to remember why I wanted all night with you.’ He flashed a dazzling smile at Tindómion. ‘It will be a desert for me until I return here, I am sure, with only Men and Hobbits, a grumpy Wizard and a Dwarf.’

Tindómion laughed loudly and shook his head. ‘I am sure you will not starve,’ he said wryly. ‘You never know, the Dwarf might like Elf-flesh.’

Legolas was horrified at the very thought of Gimli, but it was not revulsion and that surprised him, but instead respect for his new-found friend. ’You think me a man of poor morals indeed if you think I would even consider that. I would have to be very, very hungry,’ he added cheekily. ‘But perhaps I will find a Man or two as a tasty snack until I return.’

Tindómion had pulled his breeches onto his long legs and buttoned his shirt while looking down at Legolas. ‘You must also practise the fiddle, my friend, for your playing is the worst I have ever heard in my life. And that is long indeed.’

Legolas laughed and watched as the tall Elf turned and opened the door of his room. He looked back once over his shoulder and then left and Legolas was alone.

 

tbc

 

One more chapter to go.

  *       The keepers of the Rings- originally Cirdan the Shipwright had Narya but he gave it to Gandalf when he arrived.
  *        yára-carmë- Ancient art. See The Black Arrow. Chapter 5 for Lathron.




	31. Many Partings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oops- forgot tp post this chapter and no one said it didn't make sense!!

Last chapter: So many thanks to everyone who reviewed and encouraged. Especial thanks to my wonderful beta, Anarithilien who is so generous, and such an inspiration. Thank you.

 

Chapter 31: Many Partings

Tindómion’s news that the Fellowship was to leave this very day made Legolas nervous and excited at the same time and he knew that he would not sleep again once Tindómion had left. Thin winter daylight came through the open window and a cold wind swept down from the Hithaeglir, laden with snow and cold rain. He went to the latrine that was in a small room off his chamber, wondering anew at where all the waste went. Then he went to the basin, pulled the levers that still astonished him and let cold water pour into the porcelain basin and splashed cold water on his face. He stood, leaning on the basin, watching the water swirl into the hole in the basin and disappear.

He thought upon what Tindómion had said about his leaving to distract the spies of Sauron. However valiant, however glorious those warriors might be, if there were a large enough force sent against them, surely they could not prevail? A heaviness settled in his heart and he imagined Tindómion’s muscular, sleek body that he had just enjoyed so thoroughly, ripped apart in the frenzies of Orcs and wargs … Glorfindel…and Elrohir. His heart wrenched in his chest at the thought… but it was Elrohir’s possible death that broke him…Unexpectedly, he found a cry tearing itself from his chest and his hands clenched, fingers digging into his palms.

‘What is happening to me?’ he asked himself remembering his dream and the vision that Lathron had shown him all those years ago. ‘I sleep with Tindómion yet I dream of Elrohir, and now the thought of his death fills me with despair?’

He bent his head and pressed his hands down over the edge of the cold porcelain basin. Then he turned the levers again so that cold water gushed from the taps and doused his head and body thoroughly until his head cleared and he stayed leaning over the basin, blinking as droplets of water dripped from his eyelashes.

 _It is my debt to him,_ he told himself at last. _And we parted badly._

He padded back into the bed chamber, still naked and gleaming wet. He hauled his shirt and breeches from where they had been shoved and got stuck beneath the cushion of the chair, shook them out with a sigh for it was too late now to clean them, and threw them on the bed. He leaned down and searched for his boots under the bed.…Tindómion had thought the torment Elrohir inflicted upon the Orc was righteous…Legolas paused.

Thoughtfully, he propped his boots up against a chair leg.

Perhaps he had not behaved as well as he thought he had? Perhaps in releasing the Orc, he had indeed surpassed the boundary for Imladris? Their lady, Elrohir’s mother, had been tortured by Orcs. Raped. It was not said but everything pointed to that. And Elrohir, it was said, had been the one to find her, to bring her out still living.

He knew that Elrohir would have poured himself into healing her, as he had Legolas. He would never have left her. And Legolas wondered why it was not Elrond himself who had found his wife. He could not imagine Thranduil not riding out to rescue even the least of his folk, even Nauriel in spite of her dreadful curse that she wished that Thranduil would know what it was to lose a son…He felt goosebumps on his neck and a chill crawled down his back then. What if there was Power in her words? What if he were taken to Barad-dûr?

He padded barefoot and naked to the window and stood for a moment. Snow had fallen on the peaks of the Hithaeglir and high up an eagle spiralled upwards climbing beyond sight.

He heard a shout of laughter somewhere in the gardens below and saw Pippin ad Merry bundled up against the cold and laughing, flapping their hands to keep warm. They were on their way to the dining hall, he thought, for they were always the first to arrive. Suddenly Pippin looked up and caught sight of Legolas and waved wildly. Merry followed his gaze and stared for a moment, then he grinned and waved too. Slowly Legolas raised his hand; Merry and Pippin were going to Mordor too, with no idea what they truly faced…No, he thought. That is not true. They had faced the Nazgûl on Weathertop, and the Barrow-Wights. Yet they were undaunted. And here was he thinking such gloomy thoughts, an archer of the Wood who had braved Dol Guldur more times than he could remember and not once had he baulked.

He waved back more cheerfully, deciding that if he were taken, he would slay a hundred Orcs in the attempt and he would at least thin out Sauron’s army a little first. And he would make sure he killed more Orcs than the Dwarf could dream of. That cheered him up no end and he decided in the same breath that he owed Elrohir his thanks at least for saving his life. Not an apology though. He was unrepentant about the Orc whatever Tindómion thought.

Now that he had settled on his action, he began purposefully to pull together his meagre possessions, pulling out drawers to check he had left nothing there, although there was little enough to meet such care; his possessions were few, mainly weapons and those were all were honed constantly to a hair’s breadth. He had carefully stocked his quiver and restrung his bow as soon as he was well enough, out of habit. Even so, he thought, it would be worth visiting the armoury just to check his knives once again, and Gimli would be there somewhere, near the forges.

He knew too that he should write the letters he had been putting off; he could entrust them to Erestor in case of any travellers crossing the Hithaeglir in the next few months. At least his father would have the comfort of knowing he was safe, he thought…Well, not exactly safe but that everything was of his own accord.

He pulled on his breeches for it felt odd to be writing to his father stark naked. Then he dragged a chair over to the small writing desk in the corner of the room. It seemed that Elrond, or someone, had thought that he would need a lot of paper for there was a plentiful supply in one of the thin drawers of the desk and quills and pens and sealing wax in another.  Concealed artfully beneath the lid to the desk was a delicate and beautifully carved rack containing small pots of different coloured inks, green and gold and blue and red. After trying different pens and quills and scribbling with blue then green, then gold ink, he sighed and dipped the thickest pen in plain black ink and began to write in his rather untidy hand.

It was as difficult as he thought it would be. He crossed out many many times and wasted a sinful amount of paper and parchment. After half an hour, he was no closer to writing what he really wanted.

He remembered his father’s study when Thranduil had bid him farewell: 

 _He lifted his gaze to meet his father’s bright fire and felt a sudden lance of the Elvenking’s own determined hope that kept him standing strong and resolute against the Shadow whatever may come, and excited pride surged through him for Thranduil smiled gently then and Legolas knew he would be going after all._  

_Smoke spiralled thinly from the candles and Thranduil lifted his hands to his own neck and took something from it. He approached Legolas now and lifted his chin like he was still a child._

_‘I want you to wear this, Legolas.’ He pressed something small and hard into his palm and Legolas looked down._

_A thin mithril chain looped over his fingers and a tiny oak leaf pendant, beautifully wrought in gold was strung upon it. Legolas’ lips parted as he looked down. It was always worn around Thranduil’s neck, closest to his skin, closest to his heart._

_‘You know then that I am always with you. And I am always proud of you...’ He swallowed as if he could not speak the next words easily. ‘Your mother would be as well. She is always with you too.’_

_‘Come back to me, Legolas. Swiftly and safe.’_

His hand closed over the same mithril pendant now and tears stung his eyes. It had been such a long, long time since he had last seen his mother.

But it was his father who was suffering now and would be anxious; indeed Legolas half expected to see his father careering into Imladris at any moment, Galion swearing and cursing at his heels

In then end, he wrote simply:

_Dearest Ada,_

_I love you. I am crossing the Hithaeglir with Mithrandir and then will choose my path. You know I will listen to my heart and do what is right for the Wood. I will be careful, I promise._

_Please take care of Gwilileth as I think she will have gone home by now._

_Love_

_PS: Bilbo Baggins sends his best regards and hopes very much you and he will meet again someday._

_PPS: I hope you haven't killed Galadhon and Alagos. It was not their fault._

And to Thalos and Laersul he wrote:

_Dear Laersul and Lackwit,_

_I wish you were here. I keep thinking that. I have met Glorfindel and he says that I am one of the best archers he has ever seen. I fought with him and we killed so many Orcs. I have also ridden with the Sons of Thunder and the Heir of Isildur who healed me from a nasty poisonous wound- don’t tell Ada. The poison is called Lhach-Rhaw and I do not think we have anything like it at home but there is a drug called Crystôl that fights it. Ask Ilarion if he has heard of it but do not say why and don’t tell Ada I have heard of it. There are Hobbits here too- five including Bilbo Baggins. You remember him- he brought Ada the Arkenstone. Do you remember? I have tea with them in the afternoon. I have never seen anyone eat as much as a Hobbit but the food here is very very good and I have had to put an extra hole in my belt. I have met Tindómion too who is the son of Maglor! He is a very great warrior and was a friend of Gil-Galad so I have not sung THAT song here. Arwen Undomiel is very lovely but I have not spoken much to her. I think you would like her more than I, Thalos- she is your type in that she breathes. Fortunately for her she is unlikely to ever meet you so her life is not entirely wasted. Anyway she is already madly in love with Aragorn. I can call him friend now as we saved each other’s lives once or twice although I think he saved mine more fully than I saved his. I have made friends with a Dwarf too - Gimli Gloinsson who was also at Dagor Erebor. Do not tell Ada that either. And there are also four Hobbits as well as Bilbo Baggins. There is a Man too, Boromir who is from Minas Tirith which is beset._

_Thalos you would love it here. I am told the libraries are enormous._

_Laersul, I hope you have told Theliel what you told me. But don’t tell Thalos- you know how indiscrete he is._ (He smiled, imagining how Thalos would be outraged and badger Laersul until he confessed. Suddenly it hurt not to be with them.)

_Look after father and remember that I love you all and am thinking of you. As I often do. I have run out of time if I want to go and eat in the Hall before I leave. The food here is really good.  I am meeting the Hobbits, Gimli and Boromir there._

_Love,_

_PS: Please tell father to let Galadhon and Alagos out of the dungeons._

_PPS: Laersul- be extra careful in the South. Mithrandir told me to say that to you. The Nazgûl are abroad, all Nine, but I do not know if that is what he meant. Thalos- take care of everyone for me._

 

And finally he wrote to Galion.

_Dear Galion_

_I miss your lembas oddly enough. And you. I don’t know what to say to Ada so please say it for me and tell him I will be careful and that I have been in the South, I am not a child and he must have faith in me. As I do in him, and in you to take care of all of them for me._

_Love_

_PS: Your book is wrong about Imladris and its Laws. Some of them here do not keep to those customs at all. It has been highly educational in many respects._

He blew on the ink to dry it and then brushed sand over each letter and dripped sealing wax on the edge of each one and sealed it closed. Then he carefully wrote the names on the outside of each sealed letter. He almost did not bother for Galion would read all of them first. He pressed his mithril pendant onto the wax before it hardened and leant back in his chair looking out over the lovely gardens of Imladris.

He had nothing left to pack and no one to bid farewell.

He folded his letters carefully and bound them together with thin green ribbon that he found wrapped around a wooden bobbin in the desk and stood looking at them for a moment wondering if his family would ever receive them when there was a light knock on the door.

‘Legolas? It is Aragorn.’

He looked up surprised and then padded over, still shirtless and barefoot, to the door. Aragorn was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded and when Legolas threw open the door, he glanced down at Legolas. ‘Forgive me  for intruding, Legolas, shall I come back later?’ Aragorn asked, and Legolas thought with an almost exaggerated politeness. Aragorn glanced past Legolas to within.

‘But you are here. Why would you go and come back?’ Legolas asked bemused. There were some very odd ideas in Imladris and he thought to himself that even now he did not understand completely the customs of Imladris. ‘Come,’ he said, stepping back and inviting the Man to enter.

Aragorn shuffled his feet slightly and then almost resigned, followed him in.

‘Are you not cold?’ Aragorn asked looking round and noticing the wide open windows

The air had a light, brittle chill but Legolas actually found it bracing. He shook his head slightly. Perhaps Aragorn was cold so he snagged a warm robe that had been left for him, carefully folded on a chair. He shook it out and held it out to Aragorn. ‘Perhaps it is you who are cold, my friend? I am not and can easily tolerate the slight chill whereas you seem very uncomfortable.’ He looked at Aragorn’s heavy cloak that was swathed around him like a blanket and Aragorn laughed.

‘I am not cold, Legolas. But it makes me feel cold looking at you’

‘I have my breeches on,’ he said in surprise.

‘You do, but you look like you have thrown them on in haste and that only moments ago you were wearing nothing but what you were born with.’ Aragorn was smiling as he said it. ‘I will feel better if you have something on too.’

Legolas did not quite understand but he wished to put Aragorn at ease for he liked him so he shrugged and pulled his thin shirt over his head and gestured to one of the chairs that had been put near the empty hearth. Aragorn was still smiling but he said nothing more and sank into the comfortable chair.

‘Forgive me for such an early call, my friend,’ Aragorn began. ‘I thought you would be up at the crack of dawn as is your habit. You must have been carousing until late last night.’ He grinned.  ‘I heard that you wiped out young Arelas.’ Aragorn continued. ‘It will have done him good. He is arrogant and foolish and you have saved him from a beating from his mother.’

‘Ah, that news was early abroad,’ Legolas said with a trace of irony for he was still secretly shocked at how late Imladris rose. Even now Aragorn thought it was early and the grey dawn was long past. The sun had struggled weakly above the mountains and thin winter daylight made the lamps unnecessary now. Legolas supposed Imladris thought this was early.

‘Tindómion said he would give you a message from Elrond that we are to leave today.’ His voice held a question. Legolas gave a quick look but there was no guile in Aragorn’s open face and he clearly did not know that Legolas had spent a pleasurable night in Tindómion’s company. ‘He and Glorfindel will ride out today. They go to Mithlond to take messages from Elrond. Galdor, Elrohir and Saeldir will go with them and a few others.’

Legolas leaned forwards, elbows on his knees and said, ‘There is more purpose in your being here than just to tell me this.’

Aragorn pushed himself to his feet and paced restlessly, paused by the open window and looked out towards the Mountains which stretched away southwards. ‘Last night, Elrond was assailed. ‘

Legolas gasped. ‘What? He was attacked here in Imladris? How did they get in?’

Aragorn shook his head. ‘It was not Nazgûl or Orcs. It was the Ring. It tried to …seduce him to evil.’ He stood by the wide open window. ‘Have you not felt it at all. Legolas? Have you not heard it whispering into your mind, offering you what you cannot have, what you did not even know you wanted?’

Legolas leaned back in the chair and considered the Man. If Legolas himself had been a target for the insidious whisper of the Ring as Tindómion suggested last night, how much more it would want Aragorn, he thought. He paused and then said, ‘No. I have wanted what I _could_ have.’ He did not say that he had had it as well, his limbs still soft and his body sated, for the moment at least. ‘But I am only an archer in the Wood and do not wish for Power or glory. I only serve my King and People as best I can. The rest of my needs and desires are very simple,’ he said sincerely and he did not see the Man’s mouth curl at the corners in amusement for his needs and desires were known to Aragorn from their time in the Wild _._

‘What it may have done though, is to sow doubt in my mind and that is as destructive as anything else it might do.’ Legolas paused and met the Man’s gaze, an honesty and trust passed between them. ‘This is the worst sort of enemy,’ Legolas continued. ‘If you need some thing shot or killed, I can do that. But this unseen enemy is not so easily defeated.’

‘It is not the only enemy,’ Aragorn said, turning back to the Elf. ‘We will certainly need your bow and you knives before we are done,’ he said. He sat in on of the chairs near the fire although only the embers glowed faintly and gave off no heat.

Legolas nodded seriously and sat in the opposite chair. ‘Do the Hobbits know that we leave at dusk?’

Aragorn drew a breath. ‘Not yet. Of the company, only Gandalf knows of course and now you. I thought to give time to eat one their breakfasts at least, and then I will tell them. I want them to have time then to say their farewells but little else or someone will say more than he should.’ He meant Pippin of course, Legolas realised for Pippin would be unable to help himself. ‘I wanted your help to ready everything else. Will you prepare Bill and the packs?’

Legolas nodded again. ‘I will be ready. Do you wish me to come with you now? I can tell Boromir and Gimli,’ he offered, and leaned over and patted Aragorn on the arm reassuringly in the way that Gimli had begun doing to him; he realised this suddenly and his smile widened. ‘I have an inventive way to wake the Dwarf and I want to try it out when he has the means of drying himself off.’

Aragorn looked alarmed and Legolas’ smile positively dazzled. ‘I jest, Aragorn. Trust me. I will wake him as gently as a spider wakes an orcling.’

Aragorn laughed softly. ’In spite of your threat, I do trust you, Legolas. I know you would not wish to start this quest with a grumpy Dwarf and an angry Wizard, for Gandalf will be angry, you know.’

‘Ah. He will turn me into a frog. He has threatened that once before but I cannot remember why…’ He pondered a little and then remembered Anglach’s face when they had been so fascinated by Gandalf’s beard that they had provoked the Wizard into that particular threat, and did not see the bemused expression on the Man’s face. Ah, the pain struck him anew, every time he thought of his childhood, Anglach would be there, he thought.

Aragorn leaned forwards to stir the embers of the fire. It was almost useless but it gave him something to do. Legolas could see that the Man was anxious, nervous as he had not seen him before. But the momentousness of the occasion struck him; for Aragorn all would be resolved one way or the other with this quest.

‘Will you go to Mordor with Frodo or to Minas Tirith with Boromir?’ he asked suddenly and Aragorn looked away.

‘I do not know,’ he said quietly. ‘I would do what I can to help Frodo but Gandalf believes that secrecy is the key and that not all of us will go into Mordor. He believes that my path is to Minas Tirith and that too will divert Sauron from Frodo and may help him to creep into Mordor undetected…’ The embers glowed a little and for a moment, looked as if they might catch. Aragorn watched them and then straightened, leaned back in his chair.

‘I will go where you go,’ Legolas said loyally. ‘I will not abandon you. My path lies with you wherever that may be.’

Aragorn smiled as if he had been anxious and that tension had gone. ‘I will be glad of your bow and your knives, my friend. If you are at my back, I will feel greatly relieved.’

‘I could not let a Dwarf of Erebor have the glory alone,’ Legolas said. ‘Has he finished whatever it is that he has been doing, closeted away in that forge?’

Aragorn shrugged. ‘I have assumed that he has been sharpening his axe and making good the weapons he has. There are rituals too that the Dwarves have in the forges of Erebor although none has seen them.’

‘Strange are the children of Aulë,’ Legolas said amused. ‘But I am glad that we have Gimli’s axe as well as my bow. He cared for me you know, on the return from Phellanthir.’

The fire struggled and died. Legolas and Aragorn stared at the cooling embers and this time, neither moved to stir the fire to life.

‘I see you have letters for your family,’ Aragorn noted, glancing at  the writing desk in the corner and the flat packet of letters that lay upon it. He stood up and was still for a moment. Then he clasped Legolas’ shoulder and said, ‘There will still be parties of travellers and messengers going over the Mountains. They will take them for you. Join me when you are done .For now I too have farewells to make.’

The importance of the hour for Aragorn fell upon Legolas then. He suspected it was Arwen he was going to see and his heart reached out to the Man who looked far more anxious than Legolas felt.

‘Glorfindel leaves very soon’ Aragorn said, turning towards the door.  ‘It is intended to be noisy and attract attention. That is where I am going now’

Legolas frowned and said, ‘But Tindómion told me they leave at midday. Surely it is not yet that time?’

Aragorn shook his head and said, ‘Glorfindel wanted to bring it forwards. He wishes to draw any spies and enemies a long way from here so that we can leave in secret.’ He put his hand on the door handle.

‘I did not realise it was so soon!’ Legolas said, leaping to his feet and grabbing his tunic. He cast about for his belt and boots in some distress for the idea of parting from Tindómion without bidding farewell bothered him. But more, he needed to make his peace with Elrohir for he owed the Elf his life and he had said nothing even though he had had chances. Berating himself mentally, Legolas grabbed one boot and shoved it on over his foot, and then snagged his belt and buckled it with one hand. ‘Go on,’ he said to Aragorn. ‘I will be there as soon as I can.’

‘They are not yet mounted,’ Aragorn smiled and said knowingly, ’Do not worry, Glorfindel will understand if you have not bid him farewell.’

‘Maybe, but I will not forgive myself!’ He nodded Aragorn to leave as he pulled his other boot on and dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling it back over his shoulder and thinking he did not have time to braid it but surely it would be disrespectful to leave it unbraided?

He ran after Aragorn and caught up with him as he strode along the wide, paved path that Tindómion had led Legolas the night before. Legolas glanced up at the terrace and the light and airy rooms which were inhabited by Elrond’s captains and his sons. It was quiet along the balconies and terrace and the windows were all closed. It looked empty and he saw a maid coming out of one with a pile of laundry.

In the near distance there was the sound of a horn and horses’ hooves clattering, voices shouting at each other in high good humour as if a hunt were about to begin. They rounded a corner that was screened by shrubs and trees and found themselves in the square before the main doors of the House. There were many people there.

The doors stood open and on the steps were Elrond and Arwen, and some of their household. Legolas recognised many of the Elves though he did not know all their names. He saw that Berensul stood amongst them, and Amron and his wife were there. The young warrior, Arelas was talking to a woman and scowling. She was clearly telling him off so she must be his doughty mother, thought Legolas. Arwen caught sight of Aragorn and quickly made her way through the crowd and smiled up at the Man as if he were the only person in the whole world and Legolas felt a small pang for the hardship they were both to endure for the the sake of their love.

Behind Elrond was Erestor. Erestor did not look like himself. His eyes were heavy for lack of sleep and there were dark circles beneath them like bruises. With a start, Legolas thought he looked like he had been beaten. His mouth was a thin line pressed by impatience and his cheeks were drawn. Legolas could hardly recognise him; he looked ill, sunken, drawn as Men who have aged and whose hair had gone to silver or even white. Legolas stared and could not look away until the counsellor’s amber eyes cracked across him and Legolas flinched and looked away, for there was pain and hunger and shame in them.

He did not have time to wonder at that for there was a clattering of hooves that came from the stable yard and through the stone arch that led to the stables came Glorfindel, leading his white horse. It seemed that the sun shone on him and his face fearless, and full of a joy that came from within, intrinsic to his very existence. Legolas sighed. Glorfindel’s white horse, Asfaloth, had those bells tied into his mane that Legolas privately thought ridiculous. But now, seeing Glorfindel lead him out like this, he decided they were absolutely right.

Behind him were two more horses, one chestnut and one bay. Tindómion led the chestnut horse, his head bent slightly towards the other rider, who was Elrohir who walked beside the bay and leaned his head slightly towards it as if listening to a conversation with the horse.

 

0o0o0

 

Elrohir followed Glorfindel as they emerged from the stone arch into this crowd of people. But whereas Glorfindel was at ease amongst this crowd, Elrohir felt an immediate tensing of his muscles and jaw. He disliked the clamour of many people, and their adulation and gratitude weighed upon him. It was not for them he did this, he told himself, it was his hatred of the Enemy, for the torment of his mother in the dens of the Orcs of the Mountains. He hoped they would meet Orcs, the Nazgûl, all of them. He wanted to kill, to bathe in Power and slake himself with blood. And he cared little if he died in the battle. Aícanaro pulsed and he felt it coil pleasurably within its scabbard. He stroked his hand along his sword like he would a restive horse.

Beside him was Tindómion who was unconcerned with the excitement and anticipation of the crowds. It was one of the things Elrohir liked about his friend, his complete unconcern at what anyone else thought or did; he was entirely himself in the way that Erestor was, and perhaps that was a Fëanorian trait. It extended beyond what many considered the ‘normal’ bounds of decency but none dared voice their disapproval; Tindómion was discrete enough but even he could not completely disguise the fierce marks of passion on his body that were clearly of a night very well spent. Elrohir did not ask for a name and even if he had, he knew Tindómion would not give it. Earlier in the barracks, whenTindómion dressed himself in the light leather undershirt before he slid the mail shirt over his head, there had been a few surreptitious glances but only Glorfindel himself raised an eyebrow, and no one else mentioned it for the respect they held for Tindómion was equal to that of Glorfindel.

Elrohir glanced behind to where Tindómion led his chestnut horse to see that Tindómion was smiling at someone in the crowd but Elrohir could not see who it was. Presumably it was whoever he had spent the night with. Elrohir did not try hard to see; it was likely one of the warriors who had come from Mithlond with Gildor where the Laws now were easier. He looked away again towards his father who stood on the steps of the House surrounded by his advisors and learned counsellors.

Erestor was there, standing in the background as if he wanted to melt away, but he was too imposing a presence to ever do that. Elrohir deliberately caught his amber gaze, holding it, daring him. But for once, Erestor dropped his gaze and looked away as if ashamed.

At that moment, someone clasped Elrohir’s arm and as he was about to turn to glare at the presumption, Arwen, for it was she, reached up on tiptoe to kiss him.

’Elbereth go with you, Elrohir,’ she said and a memory struck him with absolute clarity; A very little _Arwen stepping gingerly into the stream, Elrohir holding her hand and Arwen looking up at her big brother with absolute trust._ He blinked and looked down at her. ’Keep safe,’ she said earnestly.

He stroked her cheek with the unaccustomed tenderness that he had always reserved for her. ‘And you, little sister,’ he said gently. ‘Look after Elladan for me.’ Her smile was a full of sadness and he suddenly thought how he would lose her forever for she had chosen mortality. He embraced her fiercely as if he could hold off death from all of them and she buried her face in his shoulder as she had always done, as she had done when first she told him of her love for Aragorn. Elrohir had always been their defender.

When he raised his head and Arwen stepped away, looking up and smiling at him through tears, he saw that Elrond was looking at them both. The devastation in his eyes suddenly moved Elrohir and he thought how much his father had lost over his long life. Compassion struck him suddenly and he lifted his hand to reach towards his father but at that moment someone came between them. A glint of pale gold hair. Legolas Thranduillion.

He had a smile on his lips and was walking towards Tindómion. Instantly Elrohir knew; it was Legolas who had burned those kisses and marked him in lust and desire. Tindómion leaned towards Legolas and his smile was knowing, possessive. An answering smile just touched Legolas’ mouth, his hot, full mouth; his leaf-green eyes lingered on Tindómion, slowly looked him up an down as if imagining the strong body beneath the armour and mail.

‘…please. Say farewell to father, Elrohir.’ Arwen’s voice pleaded and her hand was on his arm, but he was only half aware for at that moment Legolas’ eyes flicked up as if he felt Elrohir watching. The green eyes widened and his lips parted. Elrohir felt a surge of …of something. Felt himself stiffen. Unaccountably.

 _It is anger,_ he told himself. _I have not forgotten that he deprived me of my revenge. And it belittles me, diminishes my mother’s torment._

He saw that Legolas’ fingers tugged a thread loose from his sleeve and realised the Woodelf was nervous and he wondered why but briefly, for there was a stirring in his belly and a thrill in his blood that was like war, like sex. He felt power surge through him that he recognised; the desire to dominate and subdue. He felt himself fill and stiffen and his balls tightened.

Ruthlessly he suppressed it. Clenching his teeth he breathed hard and turned away, but Arwen stepped around, insistent and saying, ‘Please Elrohir! Do not turn away from him now.’

She meant their father of course but Elrohir wanted to shake her off, to stride over to Legolas and strike him, hard so his head snapped to the side and then crush his mouth beneath Elrohir’s, to shove him hard to the ground…He squeezed his eyes closed. _No. I am not like that! I will not be. And he is with Tindómion._

Arwen’s hand was still on his arm and when he opened his eyes he saw her lovely face looking up at him with concern and pleading. ‘Elrohir, I beg you. _Please_ bid him farewell.’

He breathed deeply, struggled with his own control like he would a bolting horse and wrenched himself from his anger and desire that disgusted him, that he had ruthlessly suppressed, that he did not acknowledge… He clamped down on the torrent of memories that unlocked now before him; the dark suffocating tunnels, a cry from ahead, panting, groans of lust, of rutting. _No. Not that. Not that. Why do I think that now?_ It was perhaps the colour of his hair, he thought desperately. It was the same pale gold, like cornsilk, as his mother’s. Would it be as soft, as silken in his hand? he wondered and _hated_ himself for such a thought… _blood on her hair, tangled and clotted with blood_

 _‘_ Not now,’ he said trying hard to not shove Arwen away in reaction to his disgust at himself, his disgraceful thoughts, his _unholy_ lust. ‘Give me a moment and I will go.’ He turned to his horse and fiddled with the buckle and the stirrups. He needed that time to control himself and let the practice of centuries bring such desires to heel. _Oh Eru,_ he prayed, _let me not think on this again. Let me be pure of heart and thought and deed._ If only he could avoid Legolas Thranduillion who seemed to resurrect the memories, the dreadful lust and weakness.

He fiddled with the buckles of the the girth, checked the bridle and was grateful that the horse eyed him balefully and its nostrils flared and then wrinkled, for it gave him a reason to delay longer. This was not his own patient Barakhir, but  instead Anguirel, named for the famous sword of legend and as mercurial. Anguirel shook his head and stamped his hoof impatiently and Elrohir was aware of other riders moving out his way for the horse was as uncertain of temper as he.

But it was a distraction, it gave him something else immediate and urgent so he could wrestle with the lust and bind it, crush it down into the dark. He breathed deeply, leashed himself tightly so he could be hard and strong and no one else would know.

Anguriel snapped at Asfaloth who put his ears back and he heard Glorfindel laugh so fearlessly that he wondered if he should not tell his mentor and friend. Perhaps it would chase away the darkness in him? But he thought it would not. Instead it would disgust his friend as much as he disgusted himself. He rubbed one hand over his face and with the other, leaned against the horse’s rump for a moment.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder and he steeled himself. It was Aragorn, his face was serious. ‘Stay safe, Elrohir,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not think I could bear to lose you when we have come so close with Elladan.’

He pulled Elrohir into an embrace then and Elrohir’s heart was wrenched. This might be the last time, he told himself, and remembered Arathorn, and all his foster brothers over the years, whom he and Elladan had trained and helped raise and loved, and one by one, they had fallen or withered. He suddenly could not bear it and clasped Aragorn back tightly; Aragorn departed not only for Mordor but his destiny and either way, he would never simply be Aragorn again. And neither he nor Elladan were being allowed to accompany their little brother on this, his greatest task. It hurt suddenly that their father had not chosen him.

‘And you,’ he said softly, pulling back and gazing at Aragorn, to imprint the moment in his memory. He did not want to forget one feature of his dear face. ‘Aragorn,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have a care for yourself and those others who might be lured by the Ring. It knows the heart of everyone.’ He did not speak of Galadriel. He had already spoken to Gandalf and it was he that Elrohir trusted the most to guard against her ambitions.

Aragorn leaned towards Elrohir and said with a smile that showed Elrohir only that he did not yet understand, ‘I think it only whispers to Merry and Pippin of cake, and to Legolas not at all. They are immune to the Ring I think. The three of them want only what they have and are content. It is Boromir I fear for. And perhaps Gimli a little..’

Legolas Thranduillion again! It lashed him, always Legolas. It seemed that everywhere he looked, there was the Mirkwood Elf! The Orc, the poison, crystôl, Tindómion. Too much in Elrohir’s mind, he tried to shove aside all thoughts of Legolas. ‘Do not be fooled by Legolas Thranduillion,’ he murmured out of his vicious resentment. ‘He has desires as does everyone. Just you do not yet know them.’

‘Of course he does,’ Aragorn replied, seemingly unaware of the barely controlled anger in Elrohir. ‘But he can have what he desires without the Ring…It can offer him nothing really. He has braved the South near Dol Guldur many, many times. He knew when the Nazgûl had passed and that is a skill I would have with me on this quest.’ Aragorn looked at Elrohir and smiled slightly. ‘I would rather have you than anyone else if that is what grieves you, but Elladan needs you and I would not take you from him. Legolas is a good second best. He is a superb archer and he will not abandon us.’

Elrohir cast him a glance. That was true at least. Even Elrohir had to admit that. There was no doubt that Legolas’ skill with a bow was unsurpassed by any that Elrohir had ever seen, either there or in Lorien. And he fought with a passion and grace that made Elrohir want to stop and watch for he was ferocious and devastating… He looked down at the ground. It was true also that Legolas did not seek power, or reward, or honour for its own sake. And Elrohir had always admired and liked that in others. So why did it annoy him beyond control in Legolas?

‘He is a skilful archer,’ he said grudgingly. He did not want to think so but he could not deny it.

‘He did not abandon Rhawion, and stood against the Nazgûl.’ Aragorn sighed and wound his arm around Elrohir’s shoulder. ‘I wish you could see what others see in him.’

Elrohir said nothing. He did not want to acknowledge it but he did admire Legolas for staying with Rhawion; there were many who would have fled. And he had faced the Nazgûl not only in Phellanthir but in Dol Guldur. He shook himself suddenly giving in. ‘Very well,’ he admitted at last. ‘Perhaps you are right in this. I will give you that he does not seek glory or power…Perhaps he is better suited to this quest than others.’

Aragorn smiled, a small triumph and clasped Elrohir’s arm. ‘Will you swear to me you will have a care for yourself? Do not ride recklessly into danger, guard yourself as you guard others?’

Elrohir grimaced but he gave in, as he always did to Aragorn. He smiled slightly and clasped Aragorn’s shoulder. ‘For you I will. And for Elladan. For we both have sworn to Arwen that we will see you crowned, Estel, though it take you from me. I wish only for your own heart’s desire.’ He did not pause to see the gratitude and love in Aragorn’s eyes, he had seen it before when he had championed Aragorn and Arwen’s love, though it hurt Elrond.

_Perhaps because it hurts Elrond?_

_Be silent, Ash Nazg,_ he commanded, and it was.

Aragorn stepped back, his eyes lingering sadly upon his tall and strong brother. Elrohir swung up into the saddle for Glorfindel had already mounted, and Tindómion, seeing that both Glorfindel and Elrohir were mounted, did likewise. Saeldir and the other warriors followed and Elrohir gathered up his reins to move off.

Glorfindel’s Asfaloth shook his mane and the silver bells sounded and the joy of it lifted all their hearts. Many of those watching lifted their hands and voices in farewell but there was too a desperation from those who knew this company was intended to be attacked, to draw the Eye towards them so the Fellowship could leave undetected. He caught sight briefly of his father’s face, the distraught look and hand lifted half-hoping for acknowledgement and he suddenly remembered that he had promised Arwen he would give his father some crumb of comfort. Anguirel jostled and fidgeted beneath him and he half lifted his hand in reply. He met his father’s look of astonished gratitude and it hurt unexpectedly that there was such a gulf between them, and that although Elrohir had given the very least gesture he could, it meant so very much to his father that he had even given that.

Arwen watched them both and smiled at Elrohir with softness that made him smile back for he loved his little sister and would have always done much to make her smile. That was the thing he shared with Elrond and like now, many a time it had forced them to be civil, to compromise, to acknowledge a love that Elrohir struggled with.

He heard Glorfindel call to Saeldir and he looked towards the commander, expecting that Glorfindel would lead them out. But it seemed there was some delay for Glorfindel had leaned down and was speaking earnestly to Saeldir, who was nodding and pointing East. And then Elrohir felt a hand brush his thigh lightly, but that sent a jolt through him, a spike of lust and shock of desire.

‘My lord, please wait. I would speak to you before you leave!’

He looked slowly down, knowing who he would see, who had the _temerity_ to touch him so personally, so _intimately_ ; the breeze lifted pale wintergrass hair, and long, green eyes met his, clear and full of light. Legolas had his hand on Elrohir’s thigh to stay him and Elrohir wished that he would not. Anguirel pranced restlessly but Legolas turned his head and merely spoke a word and the horse quietened and stood patiently. Elrohir did not know what to say. He wanted Legolas to touch him again, but not like this, not this light brush on his thigh for mere reassurance, merely to gain his attention. He wanted a hard passionate embrace, wrestling each other to the ground, tearing into each other…He looked away, driving hard down on the unspeakable lust, shoving it away. _What was wrong with him! It must be Ash Nazg that was putting these thoughts in his mind._

Legolas took his hand from Elrohir’s thigh and stepped back but not aside. He looked up at Elrohir, full lips parted and his long green eyes were wide open and aware, surely, of that fire that ignited between them? Elrohir looked down, unable to speak.

‘My lord,’ said Legolas again but hesitant and unsure. ‘I wanted…I wanted to thank you. You saved my life and I did not say it…I was…not myself.’ He paused uncomfortably as if he hoped Elrohir would fill the silence but Elrohir did not. He could not speak for he wanted to look at Legolas, to fill himself up with the sight of this beautiful Elf who stood so uncertain and nervous before him; he could have crushed Legolas to his chest, pressed his mouth upon the Woodelf’s. Elrohir licked his dry lips, wanting to gaze and yet fearing the sight that sent a thrust of desire charging along his veins and sinews and nerves so he felt the churning in his balls and stiffening. His breath caught and he clenched his fists, dug his nails into the palms of his hands so he would not feel, would not think, would not lust….It was Ash Nazg that had him so easily moved! He made his face a mask of stone.

Almost unaware, Legolas moved closer, surely beginning to sense that others were turning to look, to wonder what it was that the Mirkwood Elf should have to say to him, he who had deprived Elrohir of his trophy.  Tindómion too had glanced back and turned his horse.

‘You  were right about the crystôl.and beg your forgiveness that I was neither grateful for the effort you took for me, nor gentle in my response.’ Legolas looked up at the almost disappeared scar on Elrohir’s cheekbone where he had lashed out in his feverish frenzy.

 _His eyes are like green glass_ , thought Elrohir, stiff and aching. He pulled his cloak around him to hide the evidence of his desire, for it was not mere lust, he knew. It was something deeper than that. He was pulled towards Legolas like a tide and he struggled against it…- for he knew he might never see him again until the Ending of the World. If Legolas should fall…

‘You do not have to thank me,’ he managed to say and thought how hoarse his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and said more strongly, ‘You did not abandon Rhawion and I would not have abandoned anyone to the Shadow.’

Some of the company were beginning to leave through the gates of Imladris, and Elrohir saw that Tindómion had turned and stood waiting, alert; Elrohir knew that though Tindómion loved him, he was watching also on Legolas’ behalf. He raised his hand to Tindómion to show there was no need for concern but the warrior did not move and now Glorfindel too was glancing behind. Elrohir felt a flash of irritation. _Did they think he would strike Legolas?_

And then he was ashamed for he had come close after Legolas slew the Orc, and he had been violent in the way he had forced the crystôl upon Legolas. Were they not right to feel concern? His reputation was violent and full of revenge, fury. No wonder they feared for Legolas who had dared to cross him as they did not…What they did not know was how that resistance and defiance stirred him. _More dangerous indeed._ That lust in Elrohir needed to sleep, needed to be kept silent and deep within him, and he did not dare stir it for fear of the obliterating darkness that overcame him.

‘For what my opinion is worth, my father has chosen well in you,’ he said tersely. ‘And if any will resist the Ring, it is as Aragorn says; it will be you… May the blessing of your Wood be upon you, Legolas Thranduillion. Though we never meet again this side of the Sea…’ He wanted to part on a blessing, to show Legolas that he was capable of generosity too, but he could not finish what he wanted to say for suddenly he could not think. The idea that Legolas might fall was beyond his imagining and he felt a crushing weight in his heart that overwhelmed him.

Suddenly the images he had seen in the Mirror thrust themselves upon him; Legolas lost in a rapture with the wind pulling back his long, long hair and a winged shadow falling over him. It had roused him then and it did now. Beyond reason.

So he said nothing more but turned his horse’s head towards Tindómion and the road, and feeling his rider’s anxious tension, his horse tossed his mane and lifted his tail high and cantered sideways down the paved road towards Tindómion, who lifted his hand in farewell to someone beyond Elrohir, and he knew it was Legolas.

He would not look back. He did not dare for he knew that he would turn and gallop back and throw himself from his horse to crush Legolas to him, to kiss him hard and passionately…No. He would not look back.

0o0o

 

Legolas watched Elrohir canter out of Imladris, stiff-backed and aloof. His sable cloak swirled around him and his long black hair streamed out behind him. Tindómion raised his hand to Legolas but he did not see…

_‘For what my opinion is worth, my father has chosen well in you. And if any will resist the Ring, it is as Aragorn says; it will be you. May the blessing of your Wood be upon you, Legolas Thranduillion. Though we never meet again this side of the Sea…’_

That was what Elrohir had said to him as he left. Legolas heart thumped in his chest and he half-closed his eyes, oblivious to all around him until a hand pressed on his arm and he looked down to see Gimli’s concerned eyes gazing up at him brightly.

‘Legolas? What did he say to you?’ Gimli asked aggressively. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Do not fear, my friend.’ Legolas smiled his sweet smile. ‘He said that Elrond had chosen well and that I would resist the Ring.’ He laughed. ‘Who would have imagined! Elrohir Elrondion gave me his approval.’ Then he cast a mischievous look at the Dwarf. ‘He did not say that of you.’

Gimli gave a shout of laughter that made those around them look at them and some smiled. ‘Then he has less wisdom than I gave him credit for!’ he said. Then he grew serious. ‘Aragorn has said that we leave at dusk. You and I will leave with Boromir and Aragorn as if we travelled over the Misty Mountains together, and then you and I will go on together through Mir…the forest while Aragorn and Boromir go south.’

‘Dusk seems a strange time to start a journey,’ Legolas said softly.

Gimli said nothing but stared down the road after the Elven warriors who they could still see, the weak winter sun glinting on their armour. Then he turned to Legolas and said, ‘I have written letters for my family. I will give them to that fellow Lindir to give to the next company who are travelling over the mountains. And I have something for you.’ The Dwarf held something out to him, something small and round and gleaming. ‘It has been made to suit your hand, and the curve you set in your throwing.’

It was a roulette.

‘Look after this one. You were careless with the last one and left it with an Orc.’ Gimli’s earth-brown eyes watched Legolas carefully, maybe a little anxiously perhaps.

Legolas took the roulette and turned it in his hands admiringly. He had wondered what Gimli was doing watching him practice with his knives. The edge was perfectly smooth, steel chased with bronze and copper, etched upon it was an oak leaf, and ash and birch. Legolas looked at Gimli in delight. ‘It is beautiful, Gimli. Thank you.’ He held it up to the weak winter light and examined it, his long fingers finding the lever that clicked and released the tiny serrated blades that would tear through flesh and bone. He spun it in his hand admiringly.

‘I am glad it has pleased you,’ Gimli said in a satisfied voice. ‘Now come, we have much to do if we are to take advantage of what has been done here. And I would ease any burden from Aragorn’s shoulders today. Thus I am in charge of packing the Hobbits and preparing them for the road,’ he announced.

‘Then I shall take charge of Bill since you have everything else ordered,’ Legolas declared and he put his arm around Gimli’s shoulders companionably. ‘I suppose we will eat before we leave. I cannot see even Mithrandir getting the Hobbits to leave before supper.’

0o0o

His room did not look any barer now that he had shoved all his meagre belongings onto the bed. He had fed and watered Bill and packed the load ready to hoist onto the pony’s back, and now returned from the armoury having honed his knives once more but he had also wanted to admire the roulette and practice a throw. It had scissored into the straw dummy like a scythe and there were a few other warriors there who had looked at him enviously and then looked at him curiously when he told them it was a gift from his friend, Gimli Gloinsson. Now he heaped all his possessions, such as they were, in the middle of his bed and began shoving them into his pack. He had no farewells left to make now and simply waited to leave.

There was a soft tap on the door and he looked up as Berensul stuck his head round the door and grinned at him sheepishly.

Well maybe one more farewell, Legolas sighed to himself.

’I heard you were leaving.’ Berensul gave a weak smile and stood hesitantly at the doorway. ‘I wanted to bid you farewell and make sure we part on good terms.’

Legolas looked down at his feet, a little unsure quite what to say for he was still annoyed that Berensul had lied to him. But he had a kind heart and hated the hurt that he could see in Berensul’s eyes. ‘We are on good terms,’ he said and looked up with a smile.

Berensul took that as permission to come into Legolas’ room and stood near the heap of Legolas’ belongings. ‘I hope your journey goes well and you have fairer weather than when you arrived…’ Berensul said looking down at the meagre pile, a little sadly. ‘Although Mandos only knows why you are leaving now. I heard that you travel with the Dwarf,’ Berensul continued and looked at Legolas keenly. ‘It is strange that you have become friends of a sort.’ He fingered the cloak that Legolas had cast onto the bed beside his quiver and long white knives.

‘Our path lies also with Aragorn for a while, over the mountains at least,’ Legolas told him. ‘And Boromir goes with him to Gondor. It is he who hastens us,’ he said and shrugged. ‘It matters not to me whether we travel in daylight or night.’

‘That Boromir will be a grim companion!’ Berensul trailed his hand over Legolas’ bow, eyes cast downwards, and then he picked up the white knives that were set precisely on the bed next to his bow.

‘Boromir? He is anxious about his city,’ Legolas said, standing and carefully taking the knife from Berensul’s hands and putting it back onto the bed. It was not that he did not want Berensul touching anything, but they were killing-sharp and he did not think Berensul understood. ‘It is hard to believe that beyond the Valley the world is on the brink of war. Sauron assails Minas Tirith and it will fall if not for Boromir and his father. He returns at least with the Heir of Isildur.’

‘Well that will be all he returns with,’ said Berensul rather sadly. ‘It seems that everyone is leaving today. The Hobbits leave with Mithrandir back to their home, it is said, although Bilbo stays. It seems they have had a long time visiting and would have left sooner had Bilbo’s nephew not been waylaid and injured.’ He shivered. “It is hardly to be believed that the Nazgûl would be interested in mere travellers. That they are abroad is unsettling. One wonders what has brought them this side of the Mountains.’

Legolas cast him a quick look but Berensul did not really look much concerned and sat on Legolas’ bed and stretched out his legs. ‘Did you know that Glorfindel has something with him of great import. It is supposed to be a secret mission, but I have heard they are going to the Havens with some great treasure. I hope the Enemy will not attack all our great captains as they ride together for that would leave us defenceless. Our poor Elladan still lies in the Healing rooms and has not awoken. So Aragorn will ride to Minas Tirith on his own I fear. Perhaps the Dunédain will ride with him for they are his folk.’ Berensul sighed and looked up at Legolas through his eyelashes more than a little coyly. ‘Elemé has told me she is tired of me and is seeing another,’ he said sighing heavily and Legolas laughed and threw a cushion at him.

‘Cease this!’ he cried. ‘It will do you no good. I saw you with Elemé the other night in the Hall of Fire and she was looking nowhere but at you.’

Berensul grinned irrepressibly. ‘You cannot blame me for trying,’ he said. He was about to lean back and stretch out on Legolas’ bed but Legolas caught his arm and pulled him to his feet.

‘We may never see each other again and that is very sad,’ Berensul said, standing too close to Legolas and leaning in hopefully.

‘I know. It is very sad.’ Legolas said briskly and without a trace of sorrow or longing in his voice. ‘You should visit the Woodland Realm one day,’ he added quite seriously, ‘I think you and Elemé would be much happier there. You would enjoy the festivals particularly.’

‘Perhaps we will visit then,’ Berensul said not at all seriously. ‘If we can brave the goblins of the Hithaeglir and the wargs of the Wild and the terrifying Beornings and the spiders of Mirk… the Wood.’ He leaned against Legolas and stroked one finger through the long, pale gold hair.

‘You will be most welcome,’ Legolas said, steeping back ever so slightly but smiling nonetheless. ‘And you need not fear the spiders for I will come to meet you at the edge of the forest and be your guide. We will dine on spider pie and wrap Elemé in spider silk.’

‘You know,’ Berensul eyed Legolas speculatively, and leaned in again as if for a kiss ‘Elemé is quite happy to join us.’

Legolas gave a shout of laughter and marched Berensul to the door. Berensul protested all the way and just as Legolas was about to push him firmly outside, he turned and said, ‘I have also been told to take any letters you might have. My lord Erestor had inks and paper put in your room if you wish to write anything for your family although I cannot think why if you return there tomorrow. But I never question Erestor. He might turn into a wolf and eat me.’

So it was Erestor who had thought to put paper and ink in his room, thought Legolas and smiled; the counsellor was not as bad as his reputation. He remembered the kiss Erestor had given him on leaving for Phellanthir when Legolas was still a little adrift in the aftermath of the lhach-rhaw and crystôl. There had been nothing soft or kind in that. ‘I have already written them.’ Legolas picked up the packet of letters from the desk and held them towards Berensul. ‘Tell my lord Erestor it was a kindness.’

Berensul looked at the packet curiously and then glanced up at Legolas. ‘You have a firm, bold hand,’ he said mischievously.

And at that Legolas pushed Berensul against the door and thoroughly kissed him because he did not know when he might be able to kiss anyone again, and it might be his last. Then he shut the door firmly in Berensul’s gasping, flushed face before he gave into himself again and leaned against it laughing.

 

0o0o

 

The day had become cold and grey and the East wind was streaming through the bare branches of the trees and seething in the dark pines on the hills. Ragged clouds were hurrying overhead, dark and low.** As the cheerless shadows of evening began to fall Legolas picked up his bow and strapped on his quiver and the light pack he had brought with him over the Mountains. He ran his hands quickly over his belt for the small knives and the precious roulette that Gimli had given him. He pressed his hands over this breeches feeling the hidden knives strapped to his thigh and calf and within his boot, and then reached back to check his white knives were safely in their sheath at his back. He took one last look around the luxurious room that he barely touched and quietly closed the door behind him.

He ran lightly down the wide steps and into the cold evening. He spared a glance upwards to the cold and empty chambers where the sons of Elrond and his great captains dwelt but there was no one there; already they were galloping down the Greenaway and into the wilds, towards Amon Sul where they hoped to meet the Nazgûl and Sauron’s armies. Legolas sent a little prayer to Elbereth to keep them safe and he felt a sudden heaviness in his chest that had nothing to do with his own journey.

Imladris was quiet, most folk were inside the Hall of Fire or their own homes for it was cold and wintry and there was little cheer. He looked for Amron but did not see him and was disappointed for he thought the Imladrian Elf might have bid him farewell. There was no Berensul either and Legolas gave a wry smile. He had clearly made no impression on anyone at all. He shrugged it off and made his way to the stables for he was going to bring Bill.

As Legolas walked through the stables, horses put their heads over their doors and nickered welcomingly. He stroked the soft noses as he passed and spoke to each one and finally came to where Bill was happily tugging at hay and munching it contentedly. Bill swung his head round to regard Legolas warily, ears pricked and nostrils slightly flared. When he saw Legolas he huffed and returned to the hay for he had grown used to Legolas over the weeks since he had been asked to join the Fellowship.

Legolas stroked Bill’s soft nose and let the pony nibble at his hand. He sighed. Though he was full of the nervous excitement that any journey brings, his heart felt leaden.

‘I am sorry to do this to you, Bill,’ he murmured and rubbed the pony on his forehead. ‘Surely you are better off here in the warm than coming with us on this journey into the dark?’ Sam had insisted that Bill would pine if he did not accompany the Fellowship though and Gandalf had agreed but Legolas thought perhaps Sam had still not quite understood what he was asking of this little pony.

At last Bill was as ready as he possibly could be and the pony was placidly tugging at hay and crunching it happily, regardless of the load that Legolas was piling onto his back. There were pots and flint and a small box of salt that Sam had insisted he carefully stow. Pippin had brought down several blankets and insisted he did not want anyone to be cold but Legolas carefully put them to one side with an eye to Bill who he thought already would hardly be able to stand with all the luggage the Hobbits wanted him to carry.

 _‘Now don’t you be letting Master Merry and Master Pippin give Bill everything to carry,’_ Sam had warned Legolas earlier. _‘If they want something they can carry it themselves. All Bill should carry is what’s going to help everyone. ‘_

Legolas gave Bill one last pat and a piece of apple he had saved and gently pulled the strap that secured the packs and pans to Bill’s broad back. The pony gave a heavy sigh and chewed on the hay. When Legolas picked up the lead rein, Bill gave him a reproachful look and took a last huge mouthful of hay and then slowly plodded after Legolas so his guilt was complete.

The Hobbits were standing on the steps where Legolas had arrived in the rain those months ago, when he had pushed and pushed at the great door with such memorably little success. The Hobbits had thick cloaks lined with fur pulled around them but Pippin was already shivering. Bilbo was there too, huddled into his coat and his hands stuck deep into his pockets. Merry and Frodo were looking at Pippin in concern and Sam was just about to give Pippin his own cloak but was distracted from it by Bill’s arrival. Immediately he went over to Bill and scratched him behind the ears and fished out a carrot from his pocket.

‘Don’t rightly know why you are so set to come with us, Bill,’ he murmured quietly to the pony, taking the lead rein from Legolas in a proprietorial way. ‘You should stay here in the warm and dry where there’s hay and feed and grass.’ * Legolas did not remind Sam that he was the one who had insisted it was Bill they took with them.

Bill said nothing but nudged Sam demandingly hoping for another carrot.

Gimli went to stand beside Pippin and looked at him kindly. ‘It is quite normal to be over-excited when you start on a new adventure,’ he said, clasping his great axe in his hand and slapping the haft against the palm of his hand. ‘I need a few Orcs to swing this at but I am afraid I cleared this whole area when we went to the Angle.’ He looked around at the company as if for confirmation but Aragorn was too busy holding Arwen’s hand and kissing it and Boromir was fingering his horn restlessly. Legolas merely raised a quizzical eyebrow but he said nothing for he knew the Dwarf merely reassured Pippin. ‘Did I not, Legolas?’ he called over to Legolas who showed his white teeth.

‘They ran from you screaming like little dwarven maids.’

‘Dwarves never run and they never scream!’ Gimli retorted and Legolas gave a wide smile to Pippin who grinned back more cheerfully.

’It will be a long way indeed before we meet anything worse than a jack rabbit!’ Legolas agreed. ‘I do not think there will be anything to fear between here and the Hithaeglir apart from a Dwarf’s stray axe.’

‘That is the Misty Mountains,’ Merry whispered to Pippin knowledgeably.

‘I know that, Merry. It’s what happens when we get to the Misty Mountains that worries me.’

Bill stood swishing his tail and rested one hind hoof while Sam fussed around him anxiously and Legolas wished again that they were not taking this beast so precious to Sam, and so sweet in himself. He resolved to take special care of Bill and to make sure that if the worst came, he would not fall into the hands of goblins or Orcs. But he did not like the thought.

‘What are we waiting for?’ he whispered to Boromir.

‘Hm? Oh, Gandalf. He is still within with Elrond.’

‘What are they doing?’ Legolas supposed they must have important things to discuss but he too wished to be gone. Boromir did not answer and Legolas glanced at the Man; he seemed drawn into himself and was silent.

Just then the doors swung back and Elrond emerged, closely followed by Gandalf. Elrond stood on the wide steps and looked down at the small group. ‘This is my last word,’ the Lord of Imladris said. ‘The Ring-bearer is setting out on the quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid; neither to cast away the Ring nor deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it save members of the Company or the Council and only then in gravest need. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows.’

Legolas felt Gimli come up and stand beside him. The Dwarf gave him a wide grin and planted his feet squarely on the earth.

‘For you do not know the strength of your hearts,’ Elrond continued, looking at each one of them in turn. ‘And you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.’ Elrond lifted his hands in a blessing.

‘’Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens!’ Gimli’s strong, deep voice interrupted Elrond who turned his head to look at the Dwarf.

‘Maybe,’ Elrond said and there was the mildest note of irritation in his voice. ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark who has not yet seen nightfall.’

Legolas listened with interest; that was one of his father’s favourites when either he or Thalos had done something to annoy him. It was never something he said to Laersul, for nothing Laersul ever did was reckless or foolhardy or likely to cause anyone annoyance or inconvenience. Ever. Legolas felt Gimli shift and the Dwarf let his great war axe fall slowly so the head rested on the ground and the Dwarf leaned on it and looked at Elrond. Legolas caught Pippin’s eye then which were round and the Hobbit’s mouth had fallen open that Gimli was contradicting Elrond.

‘Five pieces on Elrond.’ Legolas heard a murmur and glanced around slightly shocked but more intrigued. Erestor was behind him, his vulpine eyes narrow and calculating

’Done,’ he whispered back softly.

‘Yet sworn word,’ Gimli declared in a strong voice that was clear in its intention to have the last word, ‘may strengthen quaking heart.’ Legolas was impressed; that must be a Dwarvish one for he had not heard that. He tucked it away to throw at his father next time he used it…And hoped he would have the chance.

Elrond seemed to gather himself then, drawing himself up to his full height he said rather more loudly than necessary, ‘Or break it!’ And then quickly before Gimli had a chance to reply, the Lord of Imladris added, ‘Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of the Elves and Men and all free folk go with you.’’

Gandalf’s blue eyes were twinkling but he said nothing, just nodded at Gimli and the Dwarf folded his arms over his chest and huffed into his beard.

Erestor coughed quietly and Legolas discretely fished about in the inner pocket of his tunic and his fingers clutched at some of the coins he had won at cards.

‘May the stars shine upon your faces!’ Elrond was saying and surely there was a trace of smugness there?

’May the stars indeed shine upon you,’ Erestor said quietly and held out his hand. He smiled at Legolas as he slipped the coins into the counsellor’s hand. ‘Your faith in the Dwarf is very touching but I have known Elrond for a very long time. The only ones who ever beat him to the last word were Elros, and Maedhros. And no Dwarf is a match for either of those two.’

’Time to go I think,’ murmured Gandalf who was clearly getting grumpy and wanted to start. He gave Frodo a little nudge. The Hobbit had been standing with Bilbo. Now he took a step forwards. Sam turned Bill’s head towards the road and Pippin and Merry followed after, along with Boromir and Gimli. Aragorn lingered for a moment holding Arwen’s hand.

Legolas looked back once and then turned and strode off in the footsteps of the Man who walked into his destiny. Those who had gathered to bid them farewell faded back now into the dusk and though the doors of Imladris stood open and the light fell from it onto the paved courtyard, only one figure stood against the light still watching until she could see them no more. But there were others who watched from the shadows and who knew this moment was immense and that none in this company would remain unchanged, that each of them walked into the tales of old, and their destiny.

 

The End.

 

* The Nazgûl say this to Legolas in Sons of Thunder when they have him. The full story of what happened to Erestor will be told in Narmofinion now that I have finished this fic.

** Direct extract from LOTR


End file.
